Pawn to King
by Mabal-One
Summary: COMPLETE-Book One in King Series. Sentinel!Verse. Harry Potter was born a pawn for the universe; the Potter luck could attest to that. The story of Harry's life, his death, becoming Master of Death, then a bright light and a mad Norse god and the end of the universe (sort of). Harry's journey from a pawn to a king and his life and death(...s) in-between. MoD!Harry/Guide!Harry.
1. Gifted, Guide, Primitive

_**Gifted, Guide, Primitive (Special, Precious, Freak)**_

MABalas

Posted: 08/14/2017

Chapter: 1/7

* * *

 _ **Blanket warning for the fic: implied or outright references to death, child abuse, manipulation, kidnapping, murder, PTSD, psychological disorders, and other possibly triggering things. I am not a medical professional and I write only for my own entertainment. No pairings of any variety in this prequel (implied possible slash/het pairings if you REALLY squint, though?).**_

 _ **DUE TO REVIEWS, HERE IS A FUTURE WARNING THAT THIS SERIES WILL BE HARRY/RIDDICK, LOKI/TONY, STEVE/BUCKY, AND WHOEVER THE HELL ELSE I WANT TO PAIR. SLASH. YAOI. BOYXBOY. MANXMAN. TWO MALES TOGETHER FOR SEXY TIMES (along with some het pairings like Bruce/Darcy, Nat/Clint, and others as well, but those are socially acceptable so I don't have to warn for them like this).**_

 _ **Sigh.**_

 _ **Please read at your own caution. No slash in this fic but the overarching series is a main slash pairing. If you don't like that then don't even start this one.**_

 _ **This is self-edited and all mistakes are my own. If you notice any typos please let me know; most of my writing is done in Google Docs on my mobile.**_

 _ **I own nothing you recognize. :)**_

* * *

Harry Potter was Gifted. He knew he was Gifted when he was three.

The feeling started out small. A separate sense of being angry and annoyed at nothing. An episode here, a patch there.

Harry pictured it as a mosquito bite on his brain he couldn't reach to itch and wouldn't go away.

Then the Gift came fully online as he grew closer to four. The mosquito bite became a poison ivy itch that spread from his brain to inside his skin. It blistered and oozed into his muscles and bones.

Aunt Petunia added more chores. More nights without supper. But Harry couldn't stop the fidgeting and itching and scratching at his head and arms and chest and legs. Every waking moment it was hundreds and thousands of ants crawling inside his mind and body, spitting acid as they went.

Uncle Vernon took the belt to him more than once because he itched at his skin until he had raw, red welts on his arms and neck and back the neighbors asked questions about. Then Uncle Vernon started the lies and he became the unstable orphan, his aunt and uncle's charity case.

Those same concerned neighbors looked at him with pity and revulsion.

Harry didn't care. He could only feel the itch.

* * *

Harry knew he was different from other Gifted at five. He snuck into Dudley's room one weekend when his relatives were out on holiday without him (them being gone was holiday enough for Harry). He used his cousin's computer to read up on the itch.

It was called the Gifted Itch. Nothing surprising to Harry. What Harry did find surprising was how strong his itch was. For most the itch was erratic, active only in times of high stress or emotion.

For Harry the itch never stopped.

That itch meant Harry was strong. It was the Guide itch to find a Sentinel, a Run to wrap around his mind and settle as shields against a world of emotion. It was the Sentinel itch to center their senses on a Guide, to join a Run and protect their claimed territory-a throwback from a history of nomadic tribes.

The itch was the push to bond. An Initiate Bond would settle the itch but not the chest deep ache was for the full bond. A Platonic or Partnered Bond.

The chest deep ache was for the full bond.

The International Center for the Gifted frowned on the full bond, romantic or not. It made the Run less productive for the ICG. But the Center couldn't prevent it if the Sentinel and Guide were compatible; a true match could slide into a full bond subconsciously.

A Platonic or Partnered Sentinel and Guide were much more discerning in who joined the Run. An incompatible Sentinel was not welcome where they would have been tolerated in an Initiate Bond.

Settled by the knowledge of what was happening to him but still slightly confused by some of the ICG's stated facts, Harry wondered what a Sentinel bond would feel like. Harry knew he was a Guide, it was a fact to him as clear as he knew grass to be green.

Guides were rare, growing rarer, and Sentinels were at an all-time high. Harry would be wanted by someone.

Days passed, the Dursley's returned, and the itch never stopped burning and blistering.

His chest never stopped aching.

* * *

Harry drew Sentinels without meaning to do it. Neighborhood children, teenagers, and some adult neighbors would come knocking at the door simply to say hello or ask who might be inside. Normal people who had never bothered to visit before and who never blatantly displayed their Gift-but the fact they were all Sentinels was glaring to Harry.

Aunt Petunia would never let Harry see them. She would wave them off with platitudes or outright lies. Anything to pretend to be normal.

She would be in a fit afterwards. Harry would have to scrub all of the floors by hand and polish all of the wood in the house and dust every nook and cranny.

Harry knew Aunt Petunia knew what he was.

Keeping him away from the maybe-Sentinels was worse than making him sweat and bleed pulling thorns and weeds outside, she thought. Anything to make Harry more miserable, to isolate him further. Breaking one of the top three Center rules-never keep a Gifted from other Gifted, as well as never interfere in a bond and never come between a Run-was nothing if it fed into Harry's misery.

No one would ever know, she thought. Harry was a freak, after all.

The more Sentinels of all genders and ages-Latent, Active, and Classed-that Harry drew, the angrier Aunt Petunia was with Harry each summer.

But Aunt Petunia couldn't know it was worse for Harry. She was actually doing him a kindness, keeping the Sentinels physically separated from him.

Harry had wondered what Sentinels would be like; he found out they clung and poked and pulled at his mind. They dug mental fingers into his growing shields and tried to pry their way between the cracks. If they could get in it would be that much harder for Harry to get them out. Anything if they could form the Initiate Bond.

The Latent had no idea they were even reaching. They were like constant weights dragging him steadily down.

Harry learned to shrug them off.

The Active and Classed Sentinels were worse. They latched on greedily, prying at every layer of his shields until Harry was exhausted fighting to keep them out.

Barely able to physically stand some days, Harry never let them in.

When they couldn't get past Harry's shields when he was exhausted they would try to coax him. They would offer a balm for the itch-a mental nudge of their own strength. A silent offer of a place to nestle into and rest if Harry would only let them in. Somewhere he didn't have to fight anymore.

Harry didn't know what it meant to not fight every day.

When the coaxing didn't work they would coerce him-or try. The more they postured and threatened the more agitated Harry's Gift grew. Irritable became aggressive and each Sentinel left Harry's shields psychically dazed or even partially zoned.

None of these Sentinels were _right_. They all dug into his mind like salted sand, rubbing into the open, raw blisters of his Gift.

Life became an endless blur of physical labor and mental attacks. Harry's strength of will against Sentinel's mental fingers pulling at his mind and his body trudging through the work.

Harry learned to protect himself; he learned not to trust any Sentinel and he learned how to build his own shields higher, stronger, and better. Day after day he learned to stand where before he would bend.

His Gift never stopped. It wrapped more shields around his mind-better shields. It was layer after layer spun daily like a possessed spider. Translucent, deceptively beautiful, but strong as steel and a sticky trap.

His shields stopped keeping Sentinels out. His Gift beckoned them in, a spider to the flies. No one expected a Guide who fought back.

Sentinels blundered in and his Gift wrapped them tight in silk to sink fangs into their mind for the effort. Then his Gift would cut the intruder free with the mental wound to prove Harry wasn't worth the work.

Harry learned young to always be wary of a Sentinel's then Harry learned the Sentinels had better be wary of him.

Sentinels never did learn to be wary of a Guide's.

* * *

The night of his sixth birthday Harry began to dream. Dark, terrifying things he couldn't remember in the morning-only the stink of fear and his racing heart. Harry's Gift was furious after the dreams, like a swarm of bees whose home had been shaken and the culprit gone before they could react.

The Gift's anger leached out and made Dudley meaner and Aunt Petunia sharper and Uncle Vernon harsher.

Harry's Gift grew and the dreams came more often and the Gift turned more and more frenzied every night afterwards. As if there were an enemy to attack that it missed time and time again.

So unlike a normal Guide to be so bloodthirsty. So unlike Harry's Gift to miss any prey it had in its sight.

But Harry never said a word about the dreams. Never said a word about the zoned Sentinels, and they never said a word about a Guide that would attack instead of heal. Their pride wouldn't allow it.

Harry never said a word. According to the Center no one comes online until they're seven.

* * *

The golden glow came shortly after the dreams started. It was at the heels of one very bad night, at the end of a nightmare Harry could vaguely recall.

There had been a man that was no longer a man who called Harry's name with a hate even stronger than his aunt and uncle and cousin combined.

The glow was different from his Gift; similar but separate. It rushed into his mind and poured over the buzzing, stinging Gift like warm honey. It soothed the edges and helped the Gift push away the hate of the man, the lingering fear and nausea of the dream.

The glow hated the dreams as much as the Gift, but that was one of the only things they agreed on. Most days Harry felt like a rope between two tugging dogs, pulled taught and fraying between the glow's ebb and flow and the Gift's itch and burn.

The pain of being pulled apart from the inside out was worse than the Sentinels pulling from the outside trying to get in. Harry had a way to fight the outside attacks-there was no trap to set or place to hide when the enemy was his own Gift and glow.

The glow did help soothe the Gift's itch, but it was a raging river forging pathways through his body. The Gift was the ever-present buzz and sting of bees in his mind. Nothing touched the endless ache for something Harry couldn't put in words. It was an innate sense of something far away and barely attainable and far too vulnerable.

When Sentinels pushed and poked the glow soothed the affronted Gift. The glow had its own criteria, too, whatever it may be, and none of these Sentinels were right for it either. The only other thing the Gift and glow agreed on.

There were days the tug and rush and buzz and sting of his Gift and glow made Harry too nauseous and dizzy to move from bed. He would lay in his closet and watch the glow play between his fingers like golden fireflies while his Gift flitted from person to person outside, seeking a shelter that would never come, stinging anyone that dared try to cage it down.

Harry liked the glow on those days, calm inside his body while his Gift was distracted. Harry could feel the glow eddy through his bones, as timeless as the earth.

The glow was as natural as the Gift, like breathing air or dreaming of a home away from the Dursleys.

It simply felt right.

* * *

Harry Potter was finally seven, and Harry was Gifted.

You could be non-Gifted or stay Latent or be a late bloomer, but seven was the earliest. Everyone said so.

Harry was weak, barely C Class, but he was Classed. He was a Guide, something precious and special. That's what the Center worker told him.

The local Center came in and reviewed each student. Those who came online were marked Active and Classed if their Gift was strong enough. They were all required to be registered with the ICG.

There were mandatory classes for the Gifted. If not for the International Standards for Gifted Education enacted by the ICG, his Uncle Vernon would have never allowed it. But Harry was seven and Classed and registered. Even his uncle couldn't ignore that.

The ISGE teacher was a Guide with a respectable three Sentinel Run. He was excited to have found Harry. For a few weeks Harry even felt special being one of only two Guides found in the school.

Then the ISGE found out Harry was Primitive. Which meant Harry went into the ICG registry as Primitive.

A Sentinel pushed too hard at Harry's shields in class and Harry's Gift pushed back as it always had, digging stingers and fangs into the Sentinel.

The girl was knocked out and had to be professionally Guided back to consciousness.

Harry wasn't special now. Harry was dangerous. A true freak once more.

Harry didn't say anything to the ISGE's angry questions. All of them worded as if it was Harry's fault. The Sentinel had no blame. As if Harry felt nothing when they curled fingers into his shields and pulled. As if it wasn't an insult a seven year old D Class Sentinel thought she could force her way into a bond when others much older and stronger had tried and failed.

Harry watched all of the Sentinels warily from across the room for the rest of the day. His Gift still buzzed against his shields defensively. The glow wanted to spark between his fingers and in his hair like a visible statement of warning across his skin.

I am here. I am not weak. I will not let you in.

The ISGE finally gave up trying to make Harry talk.

It was another check for his freak status. What Guide wouldn't talk? But they didn't understand it took all of Harry's willpower to keep the glow and Gift inside.

Harry wanted to let go. He wanted to finish what his Gift started with the Sentinel-make her live the constant attack and violation Harry endured every day. Harry wanted to let the Gift and glow out, wanted so badly to show them how strong he was.

Harry would never be caged by them.

* * *

Some days Harry wanted to claw through the layers of skin and muscle and bone to scratch at his brain and heart and lungs as if that could soothe the psychic ooze and itch of his Gift.

Some days he wanted to let out the glow in an endless torrent of gold to relieve the pressure as it etched through muscle and veins and nerves.

Some days the Sentinels tried to pull Harry in, thinking they were being clever. They tried simply because they could, so they could say they were the one to bond the Primitive. Those days Harry wanted to smash his head in a door to make the push and pull and itch and burn and clawing, prying mental fingers stop.

Harry would never let them in. He would never let any Sentinel in that felt like grit and glass and thorns and salt and _wrong_.

But Harry never said that out loud. Harry knew that wasn't healthy.

Guides didn't go feral like Sentinels if they weren't bonded.

Guides went crazy.

* * *

Harry was 10.

Harry was barely a C Class Gifted.

Harry was a Primitive Guide. A throwback in genetics that made Harry's Gift a weapon instead of a balm.

No Sentinel wanted to chance a Primitive Guide. It was too dangerous and the bond too volatile to properly ground the Sentinel. Who wanted a Guide that could inflict as much or more damage than the Sentinel themselves?

A weak Guide? Barely Class C? No one wanted to chance that.

But Harry wasn't weak. The same way Harry knew the glow was different from the Gift, Harry knew the Gift had learned to hide.

All of the Sentinels pressing and pulling to try to force a bond. All of the nightmares growing more vivid each night and cutting into Harry's sanity. All of the whispered words and cold remarks because Harry was a broken Guide. They only made the mad spider scurry harder; they made the threads gossamer steel.

The Gift spun its web and the glow trickled between every layer, filling in the cracks and creating something like a labyrinth more complex every layer deeper towards Harry's core self.

Harry wasn't weak.

The Gift and the glow simply got tired of the poking.

* * *

Harry received his Hogwarts letter at 11.

He had a name for the glow and an escape from the Dursleys.

Magic.


	2. Magic That Cannot Be

_**Magic That Cannot Be**_

 **MABalas**

 **Posted: 08/14/2017**

 **Chapter: 2/7**

* * *

Harry's magic was becoming sentient.

He was completely convinced of this, even if his careful inquiries on the possibility were shot down by Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall as impossible. Magic required study and precision. Accidental magic was the closest they could come to the possibility and it was based on emotion-volatile and unreliable.

Certainly not sentient.

Harry had asked the Headmaster once if it was possible for magic to have a mind of its own.

Dumbledore had smiled and charmingly changed the subject.

That was the moment Harry knew the Headmaster had the answer-and he would never share it with Harry.

* * *

Hermione figured out Harry's not-really-secret secret in first year. Harry should have known better-Hermione was too clever-but Harry hadn't given her enough credit. She was more than a know-it-all.

When the troll had her trapped in the restroom while Harry clung to its neck and Ron fumbled with a spell, the Primitive part of his Gift reared up.

Magic and Gift manifested together, only a second, the golden glow of his magic responding to the blatant threat by sparking between his fingers while the Gift focused itself through his magic. Together they arrowed the fear and tension and worry and adrenaline straight through the troll's thick skull.

As quick as it came his magic and Gift sucked back into his shields, scurrying back into place to lay in wait again.

The troll froze, stunned and confused. It gave Ron the time he needed to cast the levitation spell.

But Hermione saw that spark, that second of impossibility as the troll reeled from the psychic attack. She had seen Gifted at work before and she knew the signs then.

Hermione was curious by nature, and Harry was an anomaly. Witches and Wizards could _not_ , after all, be Gifted. That ' _could not'_ always seemed to be the catalyst of ' _would be'_ in Harry's life.

Hermione became his confidante and sounding board through the years as Harry explored his magic and Gift and Hermione stayed by his side through all of the fame, rejection, and trials. Harry would come to think of her as his sister in all but blood.

* * *

The lack of Gifted in Hogwarts was actually a relief from the dozens of Sentinels that were always battering at his shields in school in London. Harry felt like he could finally think in classes-when he wasn't being ripped apart by the infighting of his magic and Gift or left haunted in the light of day by his nightmares.

That lack of Gifted was also how Harry found Fred and George before he ever met Ron; Fred and George were Gifted.

Harry was not stupid for all that he had little skill for book learning. He was much better with practical applications. And Harry was Gifted and a Guide-a strong Guide. He knew another Gifted from across Scotland, and he certainly knew a Sentinel if only to stay far away from them. And Fred and George had the Gift-in a fashion.

Harry took the time to study what little they had on the Gifted as well as magical twins in the Hogwarts library.

Hermione had been so proud to see him taking on a research project and being active in his education.

As much as Witches and Wizards denied Muggles' intelligence and skill, they couldn't ignore the Gifted. Even if the Gift didn't work with magic (as far as the studies knew) the potential still ran in the blood. Harry found out there was even a department for it, the Department of Gifted Enforcement or the DoGE.

They were about as creative in naming it as the ICG.

Gifted were too prone to detecting the natural fluctuations of magic even if they couldn't outright see or use it, and the natural shields and psychic nature of Gifted made obliviation difficult if not impossible. The DoGE was there to keep Wizarding society secret and safe.

Fred and George knew what Harry was because they shared a spark of the Gift. As Active Sentinels even they knew a Guide when they saw one not three feet away sitting across from them on the train.

Harry found his new research project fascinating. Magical twins were so rare because they were pre-disposed to be Gifted. It usually killed one or the other of the two within a year of birth as with other Gifted magicals, and when one twin was lost the other quickly followed. The few twins who made it through were a perfect balance, an exact match in every way that allowed the Gift to flow cleanly between the two. Single Gifted wizarding infants never survived more than two or three years if they were lucky and were particularly weak in magic.

Harry carefully ignored the pang of uneasiness when he read those words.

A witch's or wizard's magical core was intertwined with the Gift. Both the magic and Gift competed for the mental and physical resources, each trying to grow with the infant. The clash of the two left the baby too weak to live, one or the other becoming dominant and inadvertently cutting off an integral part of the physiology. Magic and the Gift were innate to the body, and both were needed to survive. It was similar to a Gifted who went too far into a zone to be called back or a witch or wizard who exhausted their magic to the point of fatality. The Wizarding world was working to understand the phenomenon to this day.

That spark of a perfectly shared Gift made Fred and George see the world differently. They saw Harry for what he was, not who they wanted him to be. And the twins being the twins, they kept Harry's secret to themselves.

Keen eyes hidden behind the jokes and pranks watched Harry and effortlessly intervened when he was overwhelmed with the emotion of a castle full of teenage hormones.

Fred or George or both would show him rooms hidden in rooms, forgotten paths between the halls to avoid the crowds, and passageways outside the castle to reach the open grounds or the Forbidden Forest or Hogsmeade.

They never asked for anything in return. They never once touched Harry's shields though Harry could feel them observing. The never commented on why the shields were so strong. They simply gave, and never asked for more.

They were the first Sentinels, so diluted as to barely be Active, to ever respect Harry's boundaries.

* * *

The years passed both slowly and far too quickly.

There were too many secrets and too much "protecting him from himself" in the mix and not enough truth and honest care. Not from the adults who were supposed to protect him. Hermione and the twins and Neville were great. Ron had his highs and lows.

Then there was Luna.

Luna who everyone thought was barmy.

Luna who walked up to Harry in a strangely empty hallway one winter day.

Luna who said, like someone commenting on the weather, "I can finally see the construct, Harry. I've been sliding off of it like wet glass every year. I thought it was magic at first, and then I saw the silk. Very tricky of you. My compliments on the intricacy. Brilliantly done."

She wandered off again and Harry could only stare bemusedly at her back. He muttered a delayed, "Thanks?" at the ends of her blonde hair around the corner as students seemed to filter in from nowhere once more.

Harry put the odd conversation, if you could call it that, out of his mind until a few months later.

* * *

Harry was exhausted.

He felt like he had gone on an overnight bender then fought a dragon-again-and lost. He hadn't slept for over 36 hours.

His Gift and magic were pulling at his mind and core relentlessly. One moment he thought he would split in two and the next the forces came together with a crack, like a rubber band pulled too tight and snapping back into place. His shields were in flux and the emotion and signature of every living soul in the castle and forest beat against him in the relentless rush and ebb of an ocean tide. He could barely keep his head above it all to breathe.

He didn't remember walking into the Great Hall for breakfast. He stared through the plate of food someone set in front of him. Sound washed over him in a low rumble, his mind too caught up to process any words.

Luna was suddenly sitting next to Harry. He only knew because she waved her hand in his face until he blinked at her in a daze.

"Seeing the world with more than one eye can make it very distorted, Harry. Truths are skewed and lies seem truth. It's hard to get the distance and colors and depths right squinting with one eye closed." She made herself a plate and took a prim bite of toast and eggs as she closed one eye and stared at Harry through the other. "Yes, closing one eye, shutting it away while you let the other work can make the seeing eye too strong and make the closed eye very jealous, you know," she punctuated the words with her fork so close to Harry's face he went cross-eyed looking at it. "The construct is beautiful but it's not shared. It will come knocking at the walls one day and you won't like the way it plays. Balance, Harry."

She dabbed her mouth with a napkin, smiled airily at everyone who was staring at her in utter confusion, and drifted away out of the hall.

Harry stared after her, too. He wasn't confused. His brain was finally kicking over as her words sank in. His open mouth and wide eyes were from horrified understanding.

"Harry?" Hermione asked softly.

He shut his mouth and shook his head. He forced a few bites of food down out of practicality. He'd need the energy soon.

* * *

Harry skipped his morning classes to seclude himself in the boys' dorm. He crafted the strongest charms and wards for privacy and silence he could. He sat on his bed and used the soft sounds of his own breath and heartbeat to slip into a deeper and deeper meditation as his ISGE teachings had shown him.

Harry had gotten out of the habit of meditation with magic study to fill his days. Another lapse he needed to correct.

What he found in his mindscape made him curse. Not out of surprise, but confirmation.

Luna had been right. His Gift had come knocking, and it wasn't playing nice.

His magic had originally intertwined with his Guide shields as a second defense, a fall back to bolster them when Harry was too exhausted from fighting mentally against the Sentinels to keep them out by will alone. The magic was meant to be interwoven with the shields; the shields were supposed to be stronger with the Gift and magic together-and they had been, for a time.

But when his Gift fell to the wayside as Harry studied and worked with his magic, the magic that was once a protector of the walls had become a warden. The fortress around his Gift became a prison.

His Gift had been under siege by his magic for years and Harry had no idea until Luna informed him over breakfast.

Where Harry thought the magic had learned to meld with the Gift they were only clashing. Harry was caught in the middle of two innate forces in his mind and body. He had to find a way to balance them both.

* * *

Harry had no idea how long he spent inside his own mind, slowly unweaving over a decade of work. Layer after layer he had to unstick and unwind the silk, pry out the magic, and deconstruct the labyrinth brick by brick.

He had to make it a partnership-not a prison.

When Harry had finally stripped his shields to his core there was little left to reuse. He also noticed an odd corner of his mind, separated from the rest, a chink in his core that was carefully blanked by his Gift and wrapped in even more shields. They were haphazard and fresh, as if his Gift had to constantly work to keep that part wrapped, but he didn't have enough time or energy to worry about it right now. He had learned enough from the ISGE to know a shield in his shields was generally mental trauma of some kind-Harry had enough triggers from his childhood he didn't need to go unwrapping whatever lay behind that one. He had to construct his outer shields once more.

He started slowly, crafting a stable foundation. He carefully fed magic into each of the layers. The Gift no longer crafted webs out of desperation. The lines it laid were steel and stone, one after the other, strong, stable, and enduring. Harry's stubbornness, pride, cleverness, temper, and temperance, everything he had learned himself and been taught by his friends, was poured into those shields.

When he came back to the outside world the dorm was dark. He dropped his wards and had to sit a moment to adjust to the sudden sound of the evening common room downstairs and the wash of emotion against his new shields.

Harry needed to train his Gift as much as he trained his magic. The Gift was energy without an outlet. That was why there was always the pull on his mind until he felt like he was splitting in two as the Gift strained to be free. Harry could understand the need for freedom, trapped by his relatives, his Primitive Gift, and a magical prophecy; caged by his freakish or famous status in either the Muggle or Wizarding world.

He finally laid back in bed, exhausted by a day well spent and damn whatever McGonagall wanted to say about his missed classes. Harry wasn't sure how much longer he could have lasted before either his mind or body broke. He no longer had the pressure of the caged Gift battering inside. It was a constant pain he hadn't even realized was there these last few years until it was gone.

He fell asleep satisfied by the happy hum in his mind of a true shield.

He forgot about (a lie; he ignored, repressed, denied) that carefully blank chink in his core.

* * *

Some days later Luna wandered by him on the way to class. She had been reading an open book but paused in the middle of the busy hallway right in front of Harry. Students spilled around them in a river of muttered words and rude gestures.

She stared into Harry's eyes for a few seconds before smiling brilliantly.

"A partnership is much healthier. You'll find the colors much more interesting as well."

And that was that.

Luna knew he was an impossible magical Gifted Guide.

She had given him what was probably the most important advice of his life.

The book she was reading was upside down; she fingered the cork and radish on her necklace absentmindedly as she continued past Harry to class.

Harry couldn't wipe the smile off of his face for the rest of the day, even through Potions.

* * *

Things changed for Harry's Gift and magic after that.

He began training his Gift each night as he studied magic by day. He explored his new shields and learned to see the colors, as Luna called them. As with most of what Luna said, it seemed ridiculous but had a certain wise truth to it in context.

What Luna called colors Harry realized were actually auras. He could recognize them from the basic Gifted education in school. Harry had been using a form of aura reading for years, using his Guide senses to assess someone's character at a superficial level.

Harry thought he didn't have a knack for the skill that most Guides reported to be effortless. It was another aspect of his Primitive status, supposedly. He hadn't thought too much of it at the time and the ISGE never bothered to look into what should have been a basic skill; they simply marked him defective.

Harry hated himself at that moment as much as he hated the Center worker that had let him slide through the cracks of the system.

The auras were like having a new world revealed, one hidden right under his nose and wordlessly mocking him his entire life. It was discovering magic all over again, at a universal level. It transcended the lines of Muggle and Magical, human or plant or animal. It wasn't something on a physical plane-this was someone at their core, all of the moment's that had shaped their life to this point, their best and worst selves laid out in a kaleidoscope of color across their skin. This was an animal at its simplest-hunger, thirst, shelter, and life. This was a tree's breath, a flower tipping itself into the sun, the hush of rain on the ground.

Harry was mesmerized.

His entire life, every relationship, became a pale imitation of this truth. The reality of the spectrum of the colors a human could be was breathtaking. Personality, morality, the truth of a spoken word or twitch of a muscle, they all became an open book to Harry.

It was overwhelming, most days. Invaluable others.

Mostly it was terrifying, crushing, and heartbreaking. Harry could read the corruption in the Ministry, see Voldemort's influence on Pureblood families, the fear in Muggle-born as the war progressed, the duplicity in friends, and teachers, and everyday people he passed who knew the name Harry Potter and put up their front, good or bad. People he had thought of as friends had ulterior motives of fame, power, or money. People he had never trusted became a balm, their honesty to his face a rare treat (hatred was a truth all its own).

He had been so relieved when Hermione was lightness and truth and determination and a thirst for knowledge at any cost. There were drawbacks to those, of course, but Harry had seen both sides. Ron was not so deep, an easy boat to rock and Harry slid farther from his side when the haze of jealously was always hounding his shadow.

Snape and Dumbledore were the worst. Harry had to sit down with Hermione and check the research they had kept on auras four times before he could accept how wrongly he had judged them both. All that was dark was not evil and all that was light was not good. Emotion was not single-layered and the choices life offered weren't always easy to endure.

There were so many shades of gray most days Harry wanted to scream with it.

It wasn't a pretty picture, the auras Harry learned to read, but they were the honest truth and Harry drank them in like a dying man in a desert. He had known but not really, not until then. There was little honesty in Harry's life.

Not all Gryffindors were brave, not all Ravenclaws were honest, not all Hufflepuffs were true, and not all Slytherins were evil. Harry learned not to trust words or even actions-some of the Slytherins played pieces too many steps ahead for Harry to keep track.

Only auras were honest.

As his skill with his Gift grew it no longer fought his magic until he was insensate with the pain of the pull. Harry would get migraines occasionally, but not like before when every bit of light and sound and life bit into his brain like a pickaxe, broken glass and grit against his shields.

On the other hand, Harry's dreams grew worse as his skill with his Gift grew.

Harry carefully did not think of the chink locked away inside.

* * *

The night he saw Sirius in the Department of Mysteries he didn't think. It wasn't the first time he had seen a friend in danger, but Sirius was family. The only family he had a chance to know and he hadn't had enough time.

It was a trap. He should have known it was a trap, should have sensed it, but he had rushed foolishly into saving someone once again. His saving people thing that went tits up and ass sideways.

He watched Bellatrix's spell send Sirius through the Veil.

There was a frozen moment as Harry's mind stalled. A moment Sirius was there before his aura winked out of Harry's senses. Guide senses that said a body was there and breathing and alive and then was gone.

Dead.

Someone yelled, broken and hoarse. It took him a moment to realize it was his own voice.

Harry's Gift snapped to life. His magic fed it.

Gold sparked from his hands and arms and power crackled through his hair in a sudden upwind of power that rushed out from Harry's body.

He turned his eyes on Bellatrix.

He saw the moment she understood Harry was _more_.

She ran.

Harry didn't move physically-he pushed.

He pushed the pain and helpless fury and loss into Bellatrix as he had done clumsily to the troll in first year, as he had instinctively done to attacking Sentinels over the years.

This wasn't clumsy. This was intent.

Intent was everything in magic and to Harry's Primitive Gift.

Bellatrix fell to the ground with a scream not unlike someone under the Cruciatus.

Harry didn't look away. He didn't shy from what he was doing. He dropped his shields further and let his Gift swarm.

His world focused on Bellatrix.

He fed the emotion into her like a poison. He let it burn through her mind as she writhed and screamed and babbled.

Harry had no sense of time. Minutes or hours he poured his loss and fury into the woman. It wasn't until Hermione stepped in front of him, broke his line of sight to Bellatrix, and shouted pleas for him to stop that he came back to himself.

He stared at his friend's pale face and scared eyes. Scared of him.

But Harry had seen Bellatrix's mind and he knew _she_ wouldn't stop. He had only left her more mad than before.

"I have to finish this."

Calm. Flat. Controlled.

Hermione was terrified as Harry pushed her gently to the side.

He walked over to Bellatrix's panting body. The woman rolled over to look up at Harry as he looked down at her. Her nose was bleeding from the mental strain.

He felt nothing when he looked at her.

"Ickle Harrykins," she giggled. "Harrykins has a secret secret secret." She cackled to herself as blood slid down her cheeks and tears leaked. "You're warped and twisted. Like a roach you live when you need to die. You enjoy the power. Use it for yourself now that Siriu-"

Harry had intent. She had no right to say his name.

He ripped through her occlumency shields like tissue paper.

He was a failure at legilimency. It wasn't for lack of skill.

Magic, legilimency, was a pale imitation of a Guide's power, after all. A Primitive Guide was a weapon. Harry was a weapon with a purpose.

He cut through her mind like a lobotomist. He excised everything that made the twisted creature what she was.

It only took seconds.

His Gift registered the shock, horror, and disgust filling the silent room. At some point the Death Eaters had fled. Only those of the Light were left to watch their Savior murder a woman in cold blood.

Harry was empty. All of the fury and pain had been spent on Lestrange.

He sat down right there on the floor next to her body and stared at her slack face.

Her eyes that had sparkled with mad glee at the murder and war and pain were vacant. A body and a heartbeat. That was all that was left.

Guilt was for those who regretted.

Harry pulled his knees up to hug them to his chest. There was a growing hole in his heart the emotion kept dripping out, leaving him empty and barren. He pressed his knees tight to it.

It kept leaking around the edges.

He did not blink as he met Bellatrix's empty eyes.

Not Bellatrix any more.

He had seen the truth of her soul, the black oil slick of her aura. Her choices, her crimes, and her perversions had been his to view and judge. She had been too far gone into the black to ever come back from that edge. She hadn't even wanted to try.

She'd reveled in the misery and torture she'd caused others.

Harry couldn't explain that innate knowledge to anyone but another Guide. He couldn't explain that to a room of witches and wizards who wouldn't ever understand. They wouldn't even meet his eyes.

Harry stared at her body and regretted nothing at all.

* * *

Destroying a mind was easy. The choice had been easy.

Deciding between what was good and what was right was not easy. Doing what was right wasn't always what was good.

The nightmares after that choice were not easy.

Life was never easy.

* * *

It was Hermione who figured it out, of course. Hermione who was equal parts fascinated and concerned for Harry as she observed his Gift and magic over the years.

The battle for power between the Gift and his magic was absolute. There was no exception. Harry shouldn't be sane, even if he had taken the steps to rebuild his shields and provide an outlet for his Gift.

Harry confided in Hermione some weeks after Sirius' loss.

Harry wasn't sane. Or was it insanity if you knew your sanity was slipping? Semantics.

Harry told Hermione of the growing paranoia, the darkness and blood and chaos for the sake of the screams that haunted his every moment of sleep. The headaches, the foreign emotion that snuck in until he was nothing but a black hole of depression or a tightly corked bottle of rage.

He told her how some nights he didn't sleep for fear of the dreams. How some nights he snuck into the Forbidden Forest just to release the rage. Even the Acromantulas had learned to avoid him on those nights.

He would go days with next to no sleep sometimes, only pausing when his eyes were too heavy to keep open and then no more than an hour or so at a time. The images behind his closed eyes were too much to bear, the emotion leaking in with them too much.

Hermione's face as Harry admitted more and more was hard to read, but her aura was easy, and Harry knew he couldn't lie to himself any longer.

Hermione laid out the truth of it. The truth Harry had always known but never wanted to admit out loud.

His scar was a horcrux.

How else could a touch disintegrate a man unless the connection was there? How else could he see Voldemort's memories, his present actions? How else could the emotions be forced into him? How could the visions be forced? The curse itself should only have killed him, but Harry lived and Voldemort died and the broken soul so thirsty for immortality found its home in Harry's mind.

Harry thought of that blank space in his core. A chink in his soul and a backdoor through his shields.

Hermione figured it out, but Harry didn't tell her all of it.

Harry understood Dumbledore's actions. Why the Headmaster left him with the Dursley's. Why he never checked on Harry, why he forced him to live a Muggle life, why he didn't acknowledge Harry's sentient magic or impossible Gift, and why he never tried to train Harry in the Dark Arts.

Harry wasn't meant to fight. Harry was meant to die.

The irony of it all was the horcrux. The horcrux was all that kept him breathing and as sane as he was.

The Gift and magic cannot coexist. They rip their host apart, each vying for dominance. The magical core cannot grow and the Gift cannot settle. When given a foreign presence, a leech on their host's soul? They have a shared enemy to distract them from ripping each other to pieces.

Harry laughed.

Secure in the Room of Requirement that had conjured them a soundproof, magicproof room, there was nothing for Harry to lose.

No one to see their precious Savior's fraying mind. No one but Hermione to see Harry's careful daily magic slip, the glamour full of misdirection that hid the heavy bags, tired lines, and broken eyes, the scars on his body that were memories from humans and beasts.

The laughter turned hysteric.

Hermione slapped him on the cheek. Hard.

The sound was absorbed by the wards.

Now he knew how Malfoy felt.

The Brightest Witch of her Age leaned forward. She held Harry's hands in her own. She was so young and earnest and full of hope, moth wings beating against Harry's shields, her aura bright with determination.

The unshed tears were caught by the firelight, her hands slightly shaking where they held Harry's own. Gryffindor brave.

"Harry, we'll figure something out. We always do."

Empty words. Harry wanted to laugh again but held it in. They were not children any more, they had never been allowed to be children. They were at war, and not everything in life had a perfect solution; but he didn't have the heart to beat down that fragile hope in the sister who had given so much for him.

He was always a walking corpse in Dumbledore's eyes.

* * *

Hermione and Luna and Neville and Fred and George were the only ones who stood by him. Hermione physically the closest, but the others in heart and mind. Ron turned his back on Harry with his jealousy one too many times, as Harry had expected. He had distanced himself enough that Ron's betrayal barely broke flesh.

Now Harry stood alone in the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort.

Ron had fallen to the fiendfyre. Hermione and Neville were looking for Nagini. Luna and Fred and George were fighting the invading hoards. Remus was dead but Tonks lived.

Harry reached out with his Gift one last time, opened up and wrapped them all for a moment in his shields, a single moment he could call them his own. Only Fred and George would understand that moment of Harry's weakness. Only Fred and George would feel the loss. Harry hoped they could forgive him.

Then Harry let them all go.

Harry had been groomed as a tool. It was time for him to do his job.

Even knowing he was only going to be discarded in the end he was stubborn enough to see this through. Damn the prophecy and damn the greater good. The good was not what he fought for anymore. He fought for the memory of his blood family and the promise of his chosen family.

A promise and a memory had brought better soldiers than him to their end.

* * *

 **AN: The remaining 5 chapters are written and will be posted over the next few days as I have time to run through final edits and get them up here.**


	3. Master of Death

_**Master of Death…**_

MABalas

 _Posted: 08/14/2017_

 _Chapter: 3/7_

* * *

Death was not what Harry expected.

Dumbledore was there, for one.

Voldemort's horcrux was there, for two. It was a shriveled pile of half-formed body with raw looking skin and uncanny proportions.

Harry was torn between kicking the abomination out of pure spite or dry heaving next to the bench. The nauseating aura was apparent even in this not-death place. Stronger even, in this not-death place. It couldn't be death because seeing Dumbledore again brought back too much emotion.

Dumbledore had left that thing to piggyback in his body and on his mind.

Dumbledore who was watching him with tired eyes full of regret. Harry didn't know what to feel. But he did know facts.

"You knew that was in me. You knew and you left it there. Without it I would have died like any other Gifted wizard."

Dumbledore's face was solemn at the cold words Harry threw in his face. Not questions. Facts.

"Your magic is exceptionally strong, Harry. The horcrux was all that could possibly halt the battle of the Gift and your magic. When James and Lily realized what was wrong shortly after your birth they were beside themselves. You were sickly, lethargic, and nothing they or any of the Healers did would help." Harry followed as Dumbledore spoke, moving away from the bench and its dying occupant. "It was Lupin who was able to create a potion that repressed your Gift and made the power struggle tip in the favor of your magic. It was their hope that shoring up your magical core would help stabilize your health." Dumbledore sighed. "It worked, until shortly after your first birthday."

"Voldemort."

Dumbledore nodded as they walked along the station platform.

"That night, in trying to kill you, he gave you what you needed to survive."

"A self-fulfilling prophecy."

Dumbledore hummed in agreement.

They walked in silence some time, before Dumbledore began telling Harry more about his life and his choices. The choices he did not want Harry to repeat.

The wizard's actions had been misguided, but had been made with good intentions.

Harry felt about as much for good intentions as he did for the greater good.

Their conversation drew to a close. Harry didn't forgive Dumbledore the childhood he endured under the Dursleys, but he did at least understand. It was a start.

A train pulled into the station then. They both stopped to watch it.

"Is this it? What happens if I board that train?"

"I imagine it would take you...on."

"And if I don't?"

Dumbledore smiled at something over Harry's shoulder. Harry turned to look, but saw nothing.

Harry met the gaze of the Grand Sorcerer, the Supreme Mugwump, the Chief Warlock. After all of the titles and fame, all Harry saw was an old, tired man full of regrets. Something else, though.

There was something infinitely sad and painfully relieved in those eyes as Dumbledore gazed back at Harry. "I believe someone may have an alternative offer for you."

Harry did not break the gaze as he took a slow step away from the train.

He had accepted his death; that didn't mean he was done fighting.

Dumbledore's eyes lit up with the old twinkle Harry knew. The wizard strolled over to the train and placed one foot in the car. He looked back at Harry.

"I'm proud of you, Harry. My choices regarding your care and raising were not always pure, and not always the best for your well being. I did what I thought was good, not what was right. You may never forgive me, and I understand. I was an old fool still chasing dreams of grandeur, placing my failings on your head. I'm sorry, Harry. I cannot give you back your past, but I can help to give you a future.

"Near the Salazar Slytherin tapestry in the dungeon, tap your wand three times on the third stone in the third row from the top and say 'Bertie's Beans.' Lupin created the potion but Snape has since perfected it at my request. It will help to manage the Gift until you meet your," Dumbledore paused oddly here as if searching for the proper term, "future. You have magic, Harry, but that's only half of who you are. You are Gifted, too, and it's time you were allowed to explore that side of yourself."

Harry stared as the door closed behind his late headmaster. He stared as the train moved forward and faded into the brightness of the station.

He froze when the voice spoke.

"Your choice well made, Harry James Potter. Death did bade and here you are, staid and true. It reflects well on Death and for its new Master too."

It was both the wheezing rattle and the labored gasp of a failing body. It was the breeze over a grave, the creeping sense of your own mortality. It was time lost, final and ephemeral. It wasn't male or female. It was nothing living at all.

Harry turned slowly. Before him stood a woman, or a parody of one. There was simply the sense of the feminine for Harry. She was flesh and bone and disease and decay. Her face was pale beauty and rot all at once, shifting from one moment to the next.

Harry couldn't settle on any features. His eyes could barely follow her form as her cloak and hair moved in liquid waves of living shadow, hiding and revealing her face in ripples. The shadow should have been impossible in the white of the station, but it didn't stop it from devouring the brightness around them as she walked closer like a blackhole, living where its wielder wished.

"Master is confused. A child is Master yet but a child will do. Children speak the truth of a matter and point out the rot. Death needs a child to poke and prod, not a tired sheep who can only bleat to speak and drop their heavy head to nod."

The reed thin words echoed like a gong in his mind. They beat in his chest and were carried in his blood as they ghosted through the air.

Death kept getting closer, and it never occurred to Harry to run. Call it Gryffindor courage, shock, curiosity, or plain stupidity.

"Courage is as they call it. Shock as well. Curiosity, stupidity," she gave Harry a Glasgow smile, "they are words. Only heard. Acceptance of the end as you walk to that which has stolen all you hold dear? It is the action of the word, not the sound to the ear."

Harry gaped as Death pressed a single finger-flesh-bone to where Harry knew his scar to be.

"This is a burden you no longer bear, Master." Harry's forehead heated and burned, before abruptly going icy numb. "Death cleans the slate. No need to stare."

Yes, Harry was staring, wasn't he? That was rather rude.

"Rude, yes. But Death understands."

She seemed to reach into the light-eating darkness of her cloak and pulled out three items Harry was all too familiar with. Harry didn't even try to hide his flinch.

"Yes, Master knows. Death crafted three to see the unseen, to find a King to Death's Queen."

"Wh-what?" Harry sputtered.

Death's amusement colored the air like the dead fish and rotting wood stench of a forgotten ocean dock.

"Death seeks no mate or earthly passions. Death plays chess, and sought to find a Master who would fit it best. Death needs a watcher, warrior and executioner in one. Someone to see the soul and decide their aid and keep the balance for this trade."

"Trade?"

The question is out before Harry realizes it.

"Always a trade, Master. Always a choice. Life and Death are balance, and Death's Master you will be in exchange for all eternity."

Harry closed his eyes as the words struck home. The Potter luck, always the Merlin damned Potter luck. He looked at Death, patiently waiting for his decision.

"And if I say no?"

"You will pass as you were meant, and Death will have no Master. The Hallows Death has made and given and they cannot choose again. With no Master the game Death cannot win. The world will halt in its time and the balance will be lost. The Titan will have his way at all life's cost."

"Of course there's some bloody titan," Harry muttered.

"Your choice now, Master," Death intoned, the Hallows hovering between them, "and the Hallows Death will give or take."

"It's not much choice at all, is it?" Harry said bitterly.

Death wasn't moved. He hadn't expected her to be.

"Life is choice, just as Death. There is always a choice in each breath."

Harry didn't much see how, but he had already stepped away from the train. He had sacrificed too much, lost too much, to let it end now.

"Yes."

Death grinned, rotten teeth and red tongue and pink lips.

The three Hallows converged on Harry. The ring settled forcibly on his finger, the wand shattered and sparked against his skin. The cloak enveloped him completely with the other two items inside, catching and holding him in cloying folds.

The pain was indescribable.

Harry had no sense of time; he only knew the pain. Wild, raw magic, pure power, shoved its way through his body and into his core. It ripped through every shield and barrier he had built. Everything that was fundamentally Harry Potter was ripped apart and remade something new and _not_ Harry.

At some point a voice made it through the haze of the remaking. It was a cool wind against his burning skin and a numbing poison in his core.

"Now, Master, Death will teach you the game. Until you know the same. Until the day the feral is tamed. When the feral is tame and the Run is made..."

Harry could feel the glee as the words trailed off. It was the pop and crunch of insect shells beneath your feet, the death-dance jerk of maggots in flesh. Through the pain the smile was not seen; it was felt. Something watching from the darkness, forever outside of sight. It sent a primal chill down his spine.

"Then, my Master, your name you will claim."

Harry felt a single bone-flesh-finger _push_ against his mind.

Harry was falling through the air. Flailing in the nothing place.

He was numb. He burned. He felt nothing as his nerves raced and his heart burst and his lungs shriveled.

He was folding. Twisting. He was turned outside in and inside out again and again.

Wrong. Fixed. Off. Right.

Different.

The remaking before was nothing to this falling.

That was the first time Harry Potter met Death. It would be far from the last.


	4. Immortal to Boot (Part I)

**...Immortal to Boot (Part 1 of 2)**

 _ **This chapter is actually over 10k long, but I've split it in two for posting so you guys don't have to wait so long. I'll hopefully have the other half edited and posted tomorrow (which includes Fury and Loki)!**_

 _ **MABalas**_

 _ **Posted: 08/17/2017**_

 _ **Chapter: 4-A/7**_

* * *

It took Harry a little over a year after he accepted the Hallows to catch on to the extent of Death's changes.

The physical changes had been easy. The others...not so much.

After Harry woke up and managed to move his aching body-after they killed Voldemort once and for all and Harry walked through the cursed, dying, and dead with healers too magically exhausted to help-he had the chance to take stock of his own injuries.

He found the tribal tattoos in the skin over his heart and on the inside of each forearm from just below his elbow to mid-arm. The lines were thick and unnaturally dark against his skin, red and angry as if they had been tattooed only hours ago. They depicted an upright triangle with a circle inside, divided in half by a straight line. The Hallows.

It wasn't until a week later that Hermione sat Harry down in the Burrow, alone in Ron's old room. Hermione wanted to sleep there as a way to say goodbye after a somber day mourning for their lost ones.

Ron, Remus, and others were remembered in words and silence, tears and pain as they stayed together in the Weasley's home. All of them were too exhausted trying to outrun the memories to face empty flats or homes all alone.

Hermione transfigured a hand mirror for Harry from a nearby hairbrush. Harry honestly couldn't remember the last time he cared to look at the exhaustion carved into his face even through the glamour, but Hermione insisted.

Death had mentioned a trade in their deal. Like for like. Harry's scar, the bloody damned lightning bolt that had defined his life, was next to gone. It was no longer the angry red of a recent wound-a definition of his future. It was so pale it was barely discernible on his skin. It was truly something in his past; a visual reminder his task was done.

The raw, red wound on his chest where the second Avada Kedavra hit had been covered by Death's Hallow tattoo over his heart. Two lives for two Hallows.

Neither Harry or Hermione, the only person who knew enough about his Gift, magic, and death to try to make any sense of it all, could figure out what had been traded for the third Hallow.

Harry knew instinctively something had been given.

The three tattoos ached like brands beneath his long sleeved shirt. There was always an equal price to pay-in magic, in life, and with Death.

* * *

More changes came after the tattoos had healed-shackles Harry only shared with Hermione.

Neville didn't need another item to worry about as he finished Hogwarts and managed a lordship.

The twins were mourning their brother and swamped with people looking for jokes and happiness after the war, not to mention the fact he couldn't risk being physically near them.

Luna was busy finishing Hogwarts as well as traveling the world. She did look oddly at Harry at times, as if she could see through the cotton of his shirt to the markings beneath.

Maybe she could. You never knew what Luna saw.

Harry's already pale skin grew paler and the deep, sleepless bags he'd always had grew more pronounced.

He was hardly ever hungry-he barely ate, in fact. He lost what little fat he carried. He impossibly put on lean muscle over the months, throwing his strength out of proportion to his frame. Harry had to carefully relearn how to pick up glasses and mugs without shattering them or ripping doors off the hinges when he opened them.

It was all disconcerting, not to mention unprecedented. Hermione was at a loss for how the physical changes were possible. Harry's body was operating at an efficiency far beyond human level and only becoming more efficient as the weeks went on.

Harry didn't gain much height throughout the process, maybe only an inch or two in an oddly delayed and prolonged growth spurt throughout the year.

His arms and legs grew and lengthened into something not quite human, too long for his height with wrists and knees and elbows and fingers too bony to look natural. Harry stopped looking once he adjusted to the new proportions and stopped knocking glasses and mugs over his table or desk every time he reached for them.

His nails grew and became inhumanly hard and sharp. The last Harry let Hermione test them he could gouge long lines into stone. He didn't want to know how much more damage he could do now.

His hair grew longer and thicker, moving with a life of its own and darkening to a deeper black that absorbed the light around him much as the tattoos in his skin seemed to do. He aged while maintaining his youth; no longer a teenager but not an adult, something androgynous and ageless.

He became something different from Harry James Potter and much more like the embodiment of Death.

* * *

Harry took to casting a glamour in the morning before he left for work and releasing it when he came back to his flat at night. Some nights he couldn't bear to stare at the thing he had become and he would raise the glamour again. Those nights came more often than not until the glamour became a permanent fixture in his life.

It was almost too easy to hold the glamour while sleeping and waking until it was as autonomous as breathing.

His magic, always straining at its leash, came too happily to his call after the Hallows fused with him. The glamour was no known spell, it wasn't a transfiguration or potion; it was intent brought to life in the way Harry had always used intent. Harry wished to blend in and appear human so his magic wrapped him in his human appearance.

It was only an appearance; Harry had the sinking feeling the changes were more than skin deep.

He wasn't human anymore.

* * *

His eyes were the last to change. As he watched the vibrant green, his mother's eyes, bleed away to black, Harry had to accept there was no going back. He made his choice the day he died, and this was the price he paid.

The black bled and broke and shattered then flecked and faded into red. The white disappeared completely.

Harry stared at a stranger in the mirror every day. The stranger stared back with black diamond and spilt-blood eyes.

Death's eyes.

He could no longer see colors, could no longer see the subtle shades and intricacies of life. It was an insidious bleeding, all of the colors drained away until the network of auras became a gray monotone he had to learn to navigate all over again.

When the last of the color was gone he knew he wasn't Harry anymore.

* * *

In that same year after the war Harry was the posterboy for the British Ministry. A puppet they paraded out for the political song and dance.

Harry made public appearances. He danced pureblooded biddies and their spawn around at fundraising balls and listened to the Ministry tout his name as he hid his physical changes day after day. He offered speeches. He filled out paperwork and made the rounds encouraging the masses to take heart after all of the losses. Seeing him around the Ministry and in his office there was enough for most of the British Wizarding world.

Harry would say he hated it all, but hate would require some level of care. Harry ghosted through all the right actions and words with apathy during the day and stared hopelessly at a monster in the mirror at night.

After his short six months of Auror field work, after the Death Eater trials, Harry didn't care about much at all.

The trials were a joke. Once again too many Death Eaters went free because of the corruption and blood politics. The loss of hundreds if not thousands of Muggle and Wizarding lives had been for nothing.

Harry had forced his way into being a field Auror when he couldn't stand the politics anymore, when he couldn't watch guilty people set free to start the cycle again, when he couldn't look at himself in the mirror without the glamour anymore.

The Ministry tried to stop him. Shacklebolt learned quickly Harry was no longer the Order's tool. When they couldn't change his mind or force his hand they decided to hide Harry behind the ranks so that their precious savior couldn't be hurt.

At least, they tried.

Every report from the field stated Harry's increasingly reckless actions on routine missions. The reports grew more and more far-fetched even for the wizarding world, to the point that Shacklebolt took to having pensieves handy in his office for the actual memories of the events.

If anything, most of the reports were under-hyped according to his usual rants at Harry afterwards.

Apparently the Ministry wanted their savior alive and well to exploit. Harry's cavalier actions were frowned upon by Shacklebolt and the Wizangamot as unhealthy and dangerous.

It wasn't enough that Harry had already given his childhood and his life for them; they wanted their political doll as well.

Everyone in the Ministry learned to either fear Harry, avoid him, or try to use him for their own gains-or all of the above.

They all agreed Harry was on par with Dumbledore's magical strength, maybe stronger. They feared his power as much as they glorified it. Hermione took to monitoring Harry with the tools afforded to her as a full-fledged Unspeakable. She didn't tell anyone Harry was much stronger than Dumbledore or Voldemort. He didn't even register on the machines and only Harry and Hermione knew why.

* * *

Harry caved to his Auror retirement after a raid on a group of magical beast traffickers went awry. It left Harry bonded permanently to a baby occamy of all things.

It was a familiar bond in the most historical sense of the word and Harry wouldn't risk her being hurt in the field when they couldn't be more than a few feet apart right now. Hermione theorized the distance would lengthen as the bond settled.

Harry despised the connotations of the bond as much as he had come to love the feathery little fiend, even if some days it hurt too much when she used a particular chirp or tilt of her head or affectionate nip on his fingers.

Hermione had a theory on the shield he used to block the spell getting twisted with his Gift from the emotional environment. It turned the esoteric curse (poorly cast no less-they had been dabbling in Ancient Egyptian magical tome trafficking as well) into a familiar bond instead. The most receptive animal happened to be the magical, newly hatched occamy.

Harry named her Ajah.

* * *

It was after the assassination attempt, walking home from the Ministry in a depressive fit, that Harry learned the trade off for the third of Death's Hallows.

The spell blazed silently out of the darkness of an alley next to the dark street. He was too lost in thought, idly scratching Ajah under the chin where she had taken to curling around his neck, to have actively been tracking his surroundings.

Mad Eye's voice rang mockingly in his head of constant vigilance. Harry almost wanted to laugh. That kind of vigilance meant you cared to keep living.

It was too many years of battle honed instinct that made him duck and roll to avoid the blast, pressing a hand hard against Ajah to keep her from flying down the sidewalk at the sudden movement. It wasn't fast enough. He caught the edge of the curse with a hoarse shout.

His shirt and side were ripped open. Blood spattered the street in a spray as pain lit up his stomach and chest.

Ajah swarmed up to curl protectively over his neck and head as if she could possibly fend off an attacker at only a month old.

It wasn't Harry's choice to have his magic spark and spin in a visibly angry arc at his attacker. There was a darker edge to the glow of it, black tinging the gold as it swirled harmlessly over Ajah and into the alley.

Intent.

Harry felt whoever's soul it was blink out of existence. Dead instantly at his magic's touch.

His magic returned and hovered protectively over his body in a show of possessive gold sparks as it curled over the wound and through Ajah's growing feathers.

Harry laid there in his own pooling blood on the dirty street staring at the beauty of something that could be so deadly and the worried amber eyes of a tiny creature he considered his closest companion now.

He was losing too much blood, too fast. He was deliriously sentimental.

The night sky and golden glow began to blur together.

He wasn't sure how many minutes he laid there before his side started to burn again, this time from the inside out. He hissed and pressed a hand to the wound, expecting to feel flesh and organs spilling out. It should have cut deep into his abdomen. He knew it had.

But it wasn't. It moved unnaturally under his hand, alternately icy cold and lukewarm as it jerked and shifted under his hand.

He bit out a curse as he forced himself to sit up and look down at his side. Ajah chirped and scurried into his lap to watch.

He had enough time to see the red layers of muscle knit closed by what looked like living shadow. It darted to and fro inside his body closing the wound. Death's living shadow-or Harry's own version of it.

The skin followed right after the muscle until there was only the faintest scar left of the wound that had opened him from navel to ribs diagonally up his side.

The three Deathly Hallows tattoos seemed suddenly heavy on his chest and arms.

His soul for the horcrux. His hands in service for his new body and health.

The Hallows for his humanity.

He stood in a daze. He cast a quick cleanup on the thick pool of tacky blood with a wave of his hand. He banished the would-be (successful?) assassin's body to ash. A flick of his finger's had it blowing away in the evening breeze. He didn't bother trying to identify who it may have been. It didn't really matter, after all.

It was too easy to see now.

The Elder wand was a part of his magical core; it had changed something intrinsic, opened a link to Death Harry was barely dipping a finger into.

He knew without looking the exact moment the assassin's life ended; he knew the soul was gone from one breath to the next. It was second nature thanks to the Stone that had been absorbed.

The cloak was more difficult even though it had been the first to reveal itself. Harry realized the glamour he wore like a second skin was the cloak at work-the power and knowledge of Death wrapped in the trappings of humanity.

The truth scared Harry more than anything else.

* * *

He never told anyone what happened that night. He pulled away from his friends. He isolated himself from any further political machinations. He excised himself from the Ministry and became a recluse in his office. He came to work to have a presence because that was all he was: an empty figurehead. They only needed to see him walk through the front door in the morning and out again at night.

Harry understood the cost of the power he had been given. He understood his infamously short temper he had mostly learned to manage would be far more dangerous than he had ever dreamed. He was, for all intents and purposes, Death. Or a vassal of Death. Or some strange experiment Death saw fit to create.

Harry wouldn't endanger anyone else.

* * *

Hermione wondered and worried. Harry thought she might have an idea of what had happened if her soft questions and sad patience were any indicator. Hermione had given him everything he had needed after he woke a second time from the killing curse. After he became the people's Savior.

She knew the price he had paid, first his life and then his humanity. Hermione was the only one he had trusted to know about the Hallows and Death. Hermione was the only one who had an idea of what was happening to Harry, and even she didn't understand it all.

Harry gently turned her away each time and eventually Hermione stopped pushing. She didn't give up, because it wasn't in her to quit. But she stepped back to let him think.

She wouldn't stop caring; that wasn't Hermione's way. She gave Harry the space he needed and he loved her all the more for it.

* * *

Luna popped in and out of the Ministry as she pleased. Harry thought she might be an Unspeakable of some caliber but he had no idea what her specialty might be.

It was a good arrangement for him, though. He got to see his friend, someone who had quite literally saved his sanity before he even knew it needed to be saved. He would always owe Luna for her wisdom, odd as it might have been, over the breakfast table that morning years ago.

Luna seemed to always find him in the Ministry no matter where he chose to hole up that day. He had no idea how. He usually had enough wards and charms on his chosen hiding spot to turn away and fool even top Aurors and Hit Wizards.

Luna would pause outside them, observing for a minute or two, before knocking politely to be let in. Harry always obliged her.

She told him every time she found him that he had to wait a little longer. Just a little longer and then it would be time to start.

"It'll be soon, Harry," she would always say before she left. "You've waited so long."

Harry had no idea what he was supposed to be waiting for.

* * *

Fred and George sent him a bi-weekly shipment of all of their newest inventions as well as Harry's favorite sweets.

They did not visit. It wasn't even because of the booming business after the war, although they were making galleons hand over fist.

Too many days Harry would find himself hovering in his living room, the urge to apparate straight to them almost too strong.

Too many days he had to pull himself back from that edge.

He wouldn't permanently bond the only Sentinels who had ever respected him to the monster he had become.

Fred and George knew what Harry had done in that moment of weakness before he faced Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest. They knew the cost when Harry had taken them all into his shields. It had only meant a fleeting sense of comfort to Hermione, Luna, and Neville with no Gift of their own to connect.

It was much more than that for Fred and George.

They were Gifted in their way, like Harry but not. A single Gifted soul split in two, a mirror image that made a whole, each with their own magical core to match the Gift.

They were the only two Sentinels Harry had ever met in his life that soothed both his Gift and magic. It was why every other Sentinel sent his Gift into a frenzy-Harry needed the magic as much as the Gift to be compatible. The problem was Fred and George were _too_ compatible. They were Platonic Bond matches, a non-romantic life partner for Harry's Run.

If Harry was ever physically near Fred and George again after he had already opened his shields to them the full bond would snap into place without anyone's direct input or a by your leave.

Harry thought the Gift was odd. He had fought off much stronger Sentinels his entire life. Fred and George had too weak of a Gift to ever be able to force a bond with Harry. Harry had always been drawn to them, but he would have never known their complete compatibility without first opening his shields willingly to them to form the Initiate Bond.

They would be the first of Harry's Run if he let them; it would be psychically and physically damaging to remove the psychic anchor they had now. It had been too long and they fit too well with Harry's Gift.

The bond had weakened substantially when he died, of course, but as he didn't stay dead and Fred and George were never physically near-either when he created the Bond or afterwards-it stayed active but tenuous enough that they were not really his Run but had a foothold in his mind. Another anomaly in his Gift.

Maybe the ICG had it right by Classing the Gifted and only allowing same-Classed Runs in their service. If every Gifted created an Initiate Bond on instinct as Harry had done with Fred and George there would be no way to keep the gene pool active enough to prevent the Gift from dying out completely. The Gifted were already less than 5% of the worldwide population. A Guide would only ever feel comfortable settling down for a family with the Sentinels in their Run.

Harry didn't see the twins as anything but brothers, the same as he saw Hermione as a sister. Platonic Bonds were the most common full bond in Runs anyway. Non-Gifted didn't always understand due to the tactile nature of the bond for most.

Fred and George wouldn't trap Harry even in a Platonic Bond, though. They knew what it was for people to force you to be someone you weren't, to try to make you fit their mold by taking choices out of your hands or forcing you to give more than you were comfortable giving.

So they sent practical jokes and candies and stories of their latest invention mishaps with the unspoken invitation that Harry could always come to them if he was ever ready to do so.

They had always been his favorite Weasleys.

* * *

Tonks and Andromeda brought Teddy to visit Harry at home whenever they could. It brightened all of their days after Remus' loss.

The little boy was a joy, and Harry was honored to be called his godfather. He never turned them away from his home, but neither did Harry ever offer to meet them at Andromeda's home where they had moved in with Teddy's grandmother. It was a careful balance all of them acknowledged and never pushed too far.

Tonks was an animagus. She was a master of disguise, subterfuge, and trickery. She had taken hiding in plain sight as a personal challenge in life.

She couldn't miss the heavy, unnatural glamor Harry wore over his form. Not another animagus, not a transfiguration or potion or charm.

The glamour grew thicker and more potent every day.

* * *

Neville kept up with Harry by regular owl as he traveled remote regions of the world looking for rare and unknown plant species after graduating Hogwarts. Apparently he and Luna were hitting it off strong, meeting up every few weeks in far off places.

That would at least explain Luna's odd schedule for her visits to the Ministry.

Harry was happy for them. They deserved every moment of life they could get.

* * *

Harry's existence was good, for the most part. Routine. Safe.

Harry was losing his mind, and that wasn't an exaggeration.

The potion Dumbledore mentioned during his death had indeed been perfected by Snape. Hermione was working to authorize it for mainstream healers with Harry as the main test subject. It stabilized the magical core, suppressing the Gift, until the child was old enough to build shields of their own around the normal Gifted age of 7 years. It wasn't perfect, that only gave the child more time to find another Gifted to permanently bond with, but it was better than a 100% mortality rate.

The problem for Harry was his age. The potion was losing its potency. It had been meant for children still growing into their core and Gift, not an adult wizard already stabilized in both.

The potion came too late for Harry.

That was why his Gift had spiked that day, in the battle that left him bonded with Ajah. Lack of sleep, weakening potion, and the high-stress environment.

Ever the freak, Harry's Gift was stronger than anyone would have ever thought possible in a magical being. Granted, there was very little research into the topic, but what Harry and Hermione had found was enough.

Harry's magic was equally as strong as the Gift. If the Gift was Harry's mind then his magic was his heart. Both sought to rule his body.

The result was akin to World War 3, invisible to everyone but Harry himself. He was a nuke waiting to land and he didn't have a choice in the target.

This was worse than the nightmares and migraines that had left him an angry, brooding insomniac for most of his teenage years. This war left him curled up in bed or on his couch or splayed on his floor more times than he cared to think about, always clutching his head as if he could physically block out the psychic backlash of his magic and Gift. He tried to physically block out the wash of psychic emotion from thousands of people in the city as his shields rose and fell in his warded flat.

His magic had been growing exponentially since he absorbed the Hallows. There was a vortex in his magical core where the Elder wand lived, a direct link to Death's power. It grew, fusing insidiously with Harry's own magical core. He couldn't separate one from the other. His naturally gold magic was tainted purple-black with the edges of Death, and Harry had no idea how far it would go.

He spent more and more evenings secluded in meditation, fighting a losing battle to shore up his Guide shields and unravel Death's claim on his core.

He finally tried apparating to a remote corner of the earth to get away from it all.

He encountered the unexpected and obviously undocumented side effects of being a magical Guide.

The lack of human contact was worse than too much. When his Gift wasn't instinctively pulling in Sentinels and parsing them for compatibility, checking for a full bond match that would never exist outside the Platonic Bond he had with Fred and George, it left the Gift to focus everything on pushing out Harry's magic. Magic that was innate to Harry and flavored by Death.

Harry was barely able to disapparate back to Hermione's flat, shattering her wards and alerting her to the emergency, before he went into a magical coma.

He died shortly after, though he only remembered tumbling face down into her leather couch.

* * *

Death was there. Her living-shadow body was writhing around her. There was no female form this time, only the writhing mass of angry darkness, flashes of decayed flesh, teeth, and claws eerily similar to Harry's own.

It reminded Harry of an enraged predator.

Harry absently noted he could already feel the pull back to the living as he stared down the entity.

Death didn't bother mincing words.

"A broken mind of whispered things and lost thought dreams is better than the broken core and Death displeased when Master his own life ends for ease."

Harry couldn't even protest as he was sucked back to a pounding head and aching chest. He made a move to sit up and was shoved back into the couch cushions by a head of curly hair.

Harry had to calm down a red-faced, tear-stained Hermione after that. Her chest crushing hug and angry rant was a small price to pay.

All Harry could think to say at the time was, "Sorry. I think I'm immortal. Death keeps calling me Master."

Hermione choked on a snot-filled laugh. She wasn't a pretty crier.

"Only you, Harry."

* * *

Eventually Hermione calmed down enough to focus on the facts as she told him Ajah went into an odd stasis during the time Harry was gone. She couldn't bring herself to say dead, and Harry understood.

While Ajah was in the stasis Hermione hadn't been able to touch the occamy where she was curled on Harry's chest. There had been some sort of magical shield protecting her. Ajah woke shortly after Harry, as if nothing had happened.

Hermione started expounding on the theories and possibilities of a soul anchor if Harry really couldn't die and Ajah was pulling on his magic for the stasis and the potential for the grounding points to keep a chunk of his magic tied to Ajah, and the...He lost track pretty quickly after that and simply nodded along as he cuddled Ajah on his lap and nursed a mug of hot tea Hermione had made them both.

Hermione covered up Harry's Lazarus act. They both knew it could be a disaster if anyone found out what Harry could do. There was enough dissatisfaction with his power and influence in the Ministry and the magical world in general as it was.

It would not go over well to find out he was immortal to boot.


	5. Immortal to Boot (Part II)

**...Immortal to Boot (Part II)**

 _ **MABalas**_

 _ **Posted: 08/21/2017**_

 _ **Chapter: 4b/7**_

 _ **AN: Sorry this took longer to edit than expected. Damn brain had me adding in all kinds of crap between Fury and Harry and Loki and Harry. Enjoy the long chapter, next post won't be until after the first week of September. We're closing on our new house this Friday and are focused on getting our crap moved in and set up accordingly. Thank you to everyone who has favorited, followed, and reviewed! I'm having a blast sharing this with you!**_

* * *

It was a year and a half after the war.

Harry thought he had lost his humanity before.

He knew now it was being chipped away day by day as that well of Death's power took hold.

Over the last year and a half he had to pull on that well of darkness again and again to simply function. His Gift ravaged his magical core, trying to oust the competitor in its body as Harry resisted the need to bond with Fred and George. The more he pulled on Death's power-the more he fought his Gift-the more unhinged he grew.

His glamour was no longer rudimentary intent fueled by the cloak. It was an ancient spell pulled from some of the oldest tomes that most wizards could never hope to decipher, let alone have the power to use. Harry fused the spell with the essence of invisibility afforded him by the Hallow and created something more advanced than either separate part.

Harry hadn't seen his true form in over six months. The illusion was all he knew.

Magicals had grown diluted with their pureblood philosophies, Harry found. He could see it all with Death's power assimilating in his mind. It was her gift to be able to hear, read, and understand any language he came across as he poured across the aged tomes and deconstructed the wizarding history in an attempt to understand what was happening to him.

It'd be a shame for Death or Death's Master to come for someone's soul and have a language barrier. Harry knew from experience.

He had no idea what was happening at first. He'd find himself wandering both magical and mundane London with no memory of ever leaving the Ministry or his flat.

He'd be drawn to catastrophes and atrocities; pile ups on the motorway, row fires, murders, rape, torture. There was plenty to go around if you sought it out. Every word anyone begged, pleaded, or cursed in any language was as clear to him as his own native tongue. And Death was there waiting for Harry at each event.

Death was neutral. It had no claim over the living; it could only judge the dead and send them on their path to peace, purgatory, or hell. Harry was the right hand of Death-the observer and judge.

He was also Death's unifier; her pawn on the board of life.

Death couldn't kill. Death only had dominion over the incorporeal. Harry delivered those who needed judged into her hands.

Harry had to watch it play out, however. Some of the deaths he could stop, some he tried to stop, wanted so badly to stop, and he'd find himself helpless and mute while Death stood placid at his side. Innocent blood was spilt; Harry pleaded, begged, and cursed Death right along with the victims. Harry wasn't sure if that was worse or what came next.

Those who had taken more than their balance of souls, whose hands were too stained with blood, Harry was tasked to execute.

There was a balance in the universe. Darkness to the light. The balance had to be maintained, and it was slipping too far into Death. Too many people were being lost as humanity evolved and drew the notice of outside worlds. Aliens weren't too much of a stretch after mutants, magic, and Death.

Harry's saving people thing was a blessing and a curse. Not everyone was meant to be saved. It was time for some; certain events were fixed in fate, time, whatever you wanted to call it. Some things had to happen for others to slot in place.

It was psychological torture. Worse than legilimency training. Worse than Voldemort's soul piggybacking on his mind.

Harry never knew if he could make a difference or if he had to simply stand and watch; stand helpless as some of the most atrocious acts of humanity played out live only feet away.

The power, the healing, the title of Death's Master in trade for all of the victims' screams and pleas, young and old, would never be worth it. Power-immortality-was never worth the cost of a soul.

It was the hatred of those things, Harry's desperate attempts to cling to humanity, that made Death so pleased. She was a neutral taskmistress who did not bend when Harry begged, who did not blink when Harry struggled and broke under the weight of the lives he couldn't save.

It was Death who often stole into Harry's dark flat late at night to watch him lost in his own mind. It was Death who stood sentry as old and new memories of blood and loss, blood and screams and tears, tracked across vision.

Death was his only company when he refused what little sleep his new body required. But when those days he pushed himself blurred and bled together and he could no longer go without rest, Death was there and it was Death who stood watch over his nightmares.

* * *

Hermione was the one who found him when he was lost.

After Death pulled him to observe and judge and execute, when his task to observe and learn or observe and kill was done, Harry would sometimes forget how to be human again. He'd lose hours at a time staring at nothing physical. He'd forget himself in Death's sight, the psychic plane that made the Gift's abilities look like parlor tricks.

The shimmer and auras and strands would drown out the memories of the bodies. They would count down the years and weeks and minutes these passing strangers had to live in a tangled web of fate, free will, and time. And all of those countdowns were altered every moment of every second by every decision and every choice they all made.

There were fixed events in a life that would always come to pass, but how someone chose to handle them could alter when and how they happened. Harry had barely begun to scratch the surface of this world beyond the world. He was hauntingly fascinated by these new shades of gray he had to learn to read all over again.

The most heartbreaking were the strands. The strands were for the Gifted. Gifted matches, specifically. Harry desperately followed these. He wanted to scream at them some nights. Gifted could pass their perfect match on the street, sometimes share a nod or smile or small talk, and never know the lost chance because the ICG deemed them too weak on paper to ever initiate a bond.

So many little things in life were a single decision from changing a person's world. Too many were blinded by their own acceptance of the supposed order.

Harry tried to explain this between place of life and death to Hermione once. Put words to the shifting time stream, the anchor points of fate, the bond strands and soul auras and the knowledge of a lifespan in a breath.

Hermione had smiled sadly, then kissed his brow and left. What could she say? She wasn't Gifted. There was no possible context in her world for that kind of knowing. A powerful Guide would have trouble putting an idea to such a layered web.

Harry could lose entire afternoons and evenings in that between space of death's sight, following and observing the too-rare Run of Guide and Sentinels, figuring out who fit and who was being forced into the mold by the Center. He would watch the careful balance, the give and take of the bonds, the shifting auras that jarred or flowed...and those strands.

Harry had the strands, two mid-gray ones he knew belonged to the twins, and a third that was nearly transparent. He would call them strings but it wasn't really accurate. Some were thin, some were thick, some were patterned and textured and some were plain. It all seemed to have to do with the age and state of the bond and the power of the Gifted involved. The general rule seemed to be realized bonds were a rich, healthy black in this gray miasma while Initiate or weaker were a midling gray to nearly transparent if not outright sheared.

Those carrying sheared strands never had much time left. Those carrying the rich, healthy strands had Runs that worked like a single body, their auras flowing and blending so effortlessly Harry could only stand and stare.

But Harry couldn't be jealous. Not at all. Can't be jealous of what he'll never have.

Hermione never spoke on those nights she came to find him. She never had to. Harry knew the masculine, heavy silver bracelet Hermione had given him- _hollow-eyed, hands shaking, her chill grip as she closed his fingers around the metal too hard_ -was charmed to track his location and health. She had managed, through some Unspeakable invention for the Gifted she wouldn't reveal, to be able to determine when he ghosted into the between place of death and life. It was an extension of a Gifted's skill.

Harry could always feel her appear, like an anchor in the maelstrom. A bridge to the living and a beacon to call him back from that well of darkness in his core that showed him the lives and deaths of the world and the bonds he could never have.

Hermione was his solid ground. It was in her touch, those times she would take him gently by the arm. A single touch, a gentle reminder he still had something to fight for in the living world.

Harry would blink up at her and his vision would return to the stagnant grays of life, the strands and shimmers would fade until only the shifting auras of the Gift's sight remained.

Hermione would take him home.

She never had to say a thing.

* * *

It was nearly two years after the war that SHIELD tried to recruit Harry.

Well, would it more accurately be Shacklebolt's attempted recruiting? Shacklebolt knew Harry was slipping away. The tool was becoming a liability. Harry rejected more and more public appearances and turned away Ministry requests. He shut himself in his flat for days on end until Hermione or Luna forcibly dragged him out.

Always the tool, Harry Potter. Political good will, treaty for peace, and nuclear deterrent in one.

The Director of SHIELD wanted to talk about a muggle initiative for world protection. Harry laughed humorlessly to himself. His hero days were gone. Death owned him now.

A department worker crossing the hall glanced at him nervously and darted into a nearby office.

They had been doing that more this year. It could have been the migraine he had a month or so ago as he fought his Gift. It _needed_ to finish the bond with the twins...in the middle of a meeting with some of the top Aurors.

The fallout when Harry inevitably won the battle of will shattered the solid oak table in the conference room and cracked every ward and charm in a hundred foot radius. Or did that happen last week?

The days blurred and bled together. Any pretense of regular sleep was impossible. Hermione fussed and worried like a mother hen. Harry transfigured her into a mother hen-but that might have only been in his head. He remembered a nasty curse being tossed his way for something he did that involved a chicken and Hermione, though. Maybe that had been her control specimen in her study on the duration of animal transfigurations for something or other Ajah had tried to eat?

It didn't matter.

The fickle wizarding media had once again turned Harry into a power hungry recluse with the intent to become another Dark Lord and take over the world.

It would be a lot more amusing if the potential wasn't actually there.

Harry had the power to do it. No wizard, mutant, or hero alive could hope to match him if he wanted to reorder all of the magical and muggle world. If someone did get off a lucky shot and kill him he'd only come back again and again like the roach Bellatrix had accused him of being.

It was Shacklebolt that made a point to present Harry to the Director of SHIELD as a token peace offering.

Or had Harry volunteered for this whole farce? He talked with Hermione about a muggle superhero something…sometime….he thought?

With all of the mutants and superheroes and science experiments popping up the Statute of Secrecy was getting more lenient as magic could be passed off as something or other.

The wizarding world could never go completely public. The Ministry and SHIELD knew that. The lack of limits on magic in comparison to the other groups was too dangerous to reveal.

Harry heard from Luna and Hermione-not through any official channel-some of the Hit Wizards and Unspeakables had been trading skills, assets, and information with SHIELD operatives and scientists for some time.

And so it was almost two years after the war that Harry met the man named Nicholas Fury.

It went downhill from hearing the Director's name.

Harry stared at the Director as he shook his hand.

"You taking the piss with that?"

The man glared at him and his grip tightened.

It was a very good glare, being one-eyed and all. Harry may have said that out loud.

The Director dropped his hand abruptly and Kingsley gave a full body sigh Harry had grown familiar with as they all sat in the overstuffed chairs of Kingsley's Ministry office.

"Harry, please, just mind us for the next 10 minutes."

Harry smirked at the Minister. It made the Director shift slightly straighter in his chair.

Harry noticed that happened a lot more with people now. Even Hermione couldn't always stop a flinch.

Hindbrain warning. Instinctive. Humans hadn't always been top of the food chain, after all. When you were the spy of the spies worldwide those instincts were more developed than most.

When the Director stared at Harry-who tipped his head back to count the tiles on the ceiling for all he cared about the Director's glare-Shacklebolt took up the meeting agenda.

"Harry, I've invited Director Fury here as an extension of our good will. His agency has been aware of the Wizarding World since the Muggle World War II and our own First Wizarding War with Grindelwald. As SHIELD grew in power and influence after the war they have met with the various Ministries who have agreed to cooperate with them for the mutually beneficial purpose of concealing the wizarding world and ensuring there is not mass hysteria due to the existence of magic.

"This has been largely successful, even through recent events, due in large part to the mutant and superhero population coming to light."

He paused, probably waiting for Harry to acknowledge him, but he was more interested in a crack that kind of looked like the sorting hat.

Kingsley sighed again, but continued, "After the Second Wizarding War it became clear that something more would be needed to ensure a third war did not happen. There was too much fallout to contain when the muggles became involved. The Director has reached out to every other Ministry and they have all subsequently turned him down or provided ill-fitting candidates."

At the word "candidate" Harry sat up to look at the Minister.

Ajah felt his spike of temper. It was enough to wake her from her usual afternoon doze around his shoulders. She crawled out from under the neck of his robes to sit up on his shoulder. The bond had grown as Hermione had theorized and they could go hours being physically separated now; she was just clingy and overprotective.

"Candidate implies a choice in their participation, and a high bar for a passing mark. I'm not exactly getting a choice, am I? And we both know I'll far exceed anything they can possibly imagine to throw at me."

It wasn't bragging if it was a fact.

"You do have a choice, Harry. You know that. But you're also the _only_ choice we have for this initiative. There are threats the Muggle world is not equipped to handle, planet-wide threats to humanity as a whole. All of the previous witches and wizards failed to meet SHIELD's needs either due to magical power, personal compatibility, or mental fortitude."

Harry laughed outright at that. Even to him it sounded sharp and bitter.

"Mental fortitude? I'm the least mentally stable person you could possibly find. Even Luna has been giving me looks, Kingsley. If that's a requirement save yourself the breath. I'm going home."

Harry stood up, running a finger gently against Ajah's neck to soothe her back to sleep. She latched herself back around his shoulders but stayed outside his robe for now.

He turned for the door.

"Mr. Potter," Fury said.

Harry glanced back at him, a hand on Ajah's tail to hold her in place, but didn't turn from the door.

"Our requirement is mental fortitude. Not mental stability. This initiative is unique. It is my understanding you are unique as well, Mr. Potter. You've twice survived a magical curse that has before killed every recipient. As a youth you were able to survive countless attempts on your life, including dueling a terrorist who had decades of training more than yourself. You helped orchestrate and were key in the hunt for the artifacts necessary to end that terrorist's life. You followed through on the mission until Tom Riddle was eliminated by your own hand. You're also a Gifted wizard, unprecedented outside the rare twin set. If that isn't mental fortitude, I'm not sure how you would define it."

The words hung in the air. Harry turned to Director Fury fully. A Director so secretive Hermione and Luna had never seen a picture of him, only heard his name in the most obscure of the Unspeakable rooms.

"I survived the first killing curse because my mother sacrificed her own life for mine, Director I was a year and a half old. I survived the second killing curse because of an obscure turn of...family luck. I was seventeen years old. My Gift, as you noted, has left me more than half mad as it fights my magic's claim every day. I'm an impossible statistic; whether I'm damned or blessed to have survived this long is your own call. I'll make myself clear, because Kingsley already knows this: I'm not your weapon, toy, or science project. My Gift, my magic, and my life is my own. I choose who to help. I choose the when and why. I can as easily watch a man die as I can ensure he lives. You don't need to understand me, Director. I already know everything about you."

The Director steepled his fingers as he observed Harry.

"You know nothing of SHIELD or our purpose, Mr. Potter. Even you, the 'Savior,' don't have clearance for that. And the loss of life is the reality of war; there's nothing that will change that. What I'm hoping to do is position a team that can mitigate that loss."

Harry had to hold in his temper. He let the anger and bitterness wash over him and then out. Raw emotion and a lack of thinking had led to too much death already in his life. A break in control, a step too far into the madness, and he could easily demolish the entire Ministry right on top of them all.

When his initial wave of anger passed he met the Director's heavy gaze and steepled fingers without flinching.

Then he looked past the physical to the truth.

He took in Fury's neutral aura spreading darker, the grayer hints in his soul, the sparks of brightness-clever, persuasive, underhanded, and protective. Active Guide, barely D class, enough to judge a situation and character, aside from Harry who was so beyond an S class at this point it was almost funny.

All in all, Director Fury was a consummate leader who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty for the greater good, who would defend his team with his own life if necessary despite the prickly exterior, and who would not back down from recruiting Harry. Unfortunately.

Abruptly Harry was tired. He was too tired for this horse shite.

"Active Guide, barely Class D," he recited flatly. "One Sentinel Run, Initiate, a match of convenience not compatibility to improve your standing as Director to whatever board of hidden faces you report to. Clever, a born strategist, and willing to make the ruthless plays for the greater good, even at the cost of personal and professional relationships or morals. You skirt insubordination if it's the right thing to do, even if it's not the good thing. That, at least, I can respect."

The Director's slowly raising eyebrow was the only tell to Harry's accuracy.

"Please, correct me if I'm wrong," Harry had to add.

The Director eyed Harry before sitting further forward to rest both elbows on his knees and his hands in his lap. It was a classic tactic to seem sympathetic and approachable. If Harry hadn't been hyper-aware of body language growing up with the Dursleys that might have actually helped the Director's cause.

Harry felt the Director reach out nearly invisible feelers to his shields; the Director was good. He played his weak Gift to his own devices, the touch so light there were very few who would have detected it.

It pissed Harry off.

"Very impressive, Mr. Potter. On par with some of my best agents. For the record, you would be a valuable member of the Initiative. Your skills and opinions would be taken into account at all times; you're not a tool we point at the latest mishap. You would be able to do good for the world, not just the Wizarding community."

Harry sneered at him. "Don't insult my intelligence. And don't ever," Ajah dropped from Harry's shoulders to the floor, growing to fill the room in response to Harry's barely leashed temper, "try that again, Director."

The occamy curled around and over him possessively, her head coming over one shoulder to snap at Fury while her wings flared and fluttered in warning around him.

There was true shock on the Director's face, or as much as the man was willing to reveal when he twitched for the gun Harry was sure was hidden on his person.

"If you ever try to touch my shields again I will retaliate. You won't like the results."

Harry patted Ajah's beak and she shrunk abruptly to fit into the palm of his hand. He settled her into the breast pocket of the robes he wore for an undisturbed nap now that their point had been made.

"I'm not a hero, Director Fury. Don't try to pretend I am. And for the record, I hate the greater good."

Harry turned and left the room.

He ignored Kingsley calling his name as the door shut behind him.

* * *

Harry wasn't sure how it happened.

He took a walk to brush off the failure of his meeting with SHIELD's Director. On the roundabout way back to his office, as he ran a finger soothingly against Ajah's head and chin in his pocket, a blinding light engulfed him.

He was shocked enough it took him a few seconds to see the shifting shades of gray. A rainbow light?

The world sparked and shattered around him as his magic lashed out against the vortex, ripping through the wards in a way Harry had been carefully avoiding. It was one thing for Shacklebolt to be aware of his power when he destroyed furniture or a few pieces of charmed Auror jewelry. It was quite another to shatter centuries-old Ministry failsafes.

Harry was as shocked by the turn of events as he was not. He was a Potter; fate would always have it out for him.

The power of the vortex was raw and wild in a way Harry had only felt in himself before-in that black hole of Death's power.

There was a twitch of unfamiliar muscles in his face. He spun slowly to take in the solidifying vortex. Harry's magic had stalled it for a moment; now it was doubling its efforts.

He spun far enough then to see Hermione's frightened face run towards him down the ministry hallway. Others were peeking out of offices and from down the hall. No one else moved to help.

Harry's eyes met Hermione's. The Brightest Witch of her Age in more than the obvious.

She stumbled to a stop. The wand clutched in her hand, raised to cast, fell to her side.

Harry grinned at her. He had forgotten what a true smile felt like.

His last sight was Hermione mouthing his name as the light pulled him out of existence.

* * *

Harry remembered little of the journey through the light. Nothing but tumbling, rushing wind as he was sucked through the tunnel the light had crafted.

He lost his breath more than once. He could feel his lungs burn and shrivel and his heart stutter and his vision turn cloudy and black before his healing kicked them back into repair and it started the process from the top.

Over and over and over again.

He couldn't scream.

You needed air for that.

* * *

Harry was spat out of the light onto his arse in the middle of a darkened room. It took a few blinks for him to realize there was the low, flickering glow of candles scattered at the edges of the room.

A few more disoriented blinks and gasping breaths and he observed the rough hewn furniture around the wood tables holding the candles. The walls were stone and the air was chilly enough to make him shiver violently. He was dressed for late summer, not deep winter.

He ran a hand over the front of his robes and found Ajah sleeping in the front pocket over his heart. Harry was happy to find the bond with her could survive interdimensional travel, because Harry knew he was no longer on earth.

This place was unnaturally lifeless. No sentient forms, not even the scurry of animals or even insects. It put his instincts on alert. At least Death's growing hold on his core inhibited the side effects of the isolation, because this would be hell.

Once Harry caught his breath and psychically oriented himself to an empty planet, he took in the details of the room. There were chaotically organized stacks of parchment, hand bound books, and potion bottles spread across every inch of available table space. Scribbled notes in some kind of old norse were stuck haphazardly all over the walls and even spread on the floor. Some included magical runes Harry recognized from his own study. He glanced at one of the nearby stacks of paper. Notes and algorithms for magical trajectories and runic amplifiers. Which meant...

Harry looked closer at the floor around him. A floor he realized did in fact have a runic circle of power carved carefully and precisely into the stone.

Harry was sitting in the middle of it.

Bugger.

* * *

Harry wasn't sure how much time passed. He had tried a few different times to break the circle and had only succeeded in draining his magic and exhausting himself to the point he passed out. He had woken up from the unanticipated nap to find Ajah awake and curled in his lap.

Ajah had tried to grow for Harry to warm himself in her feathers but the backlash of whatever magic that change must have held left her weak. She was sleeping it off curled close in Harry's arms.

Harry attempt to transfigure his robes into a more suitable winter coat gave the same result-it was what knocked him out.

So here Harry sat. Shivering on the freezing stone floor and nearly hypothermic while he cuddled Ajah like a teddy bear to try to keep her warm.

Whoever had made the runic circle had made it with someone immensely powerful in mind. Sheer magical strength hadn't overloaded it. The circle had simply siphoned it off. There were no chinks or cracks in the crafting to exploit. Drawing magic initially had left the runic path opened and it was steadily sapping his magic away from his core, making him weaker and weaker. Even the smallest warming spell he tried had been similarly drained away by the circle.

Whoever had crafted it was extremely thorough or extremely paranoid-or both.

Harry didn't dare touch Death's power. He was honestly afraid of what would happen. The circle could drain it away-and he had no idea what would happen to him then-or he could actually pull enough raw energy to break the runes. Harry knew he would change himself irrevocably with the amount of power it would require to shatter the crafting.

The only option was to wait. This was a well-laid trap designed to contain whatever it caught. The hunter would be by to check it at some point.

* * *

Harry had plenty of time to study the circle and read through what notes he could lying around the room. It was odd that the same sort of paranoia that had crafted the circle didn't translate to the research it had required.

It was relatively clear from Harry's own experience traveling through the light as well as his study of the runes and notes around him that the vortex had been an interdimensional trap. Some of the calculations and theory required were over Harry's head, more along Hermione's line of study, but he was able to get the basics. The runes were a set of criteria actively searching at all times, drawing matches into its web. Harry had never seen anything as advanced as this, though.

Multiple dimensions had long been studied as a possibility by the Unspeakables. Harry knew Hermione would flip to see it had been proven true. It would be more impressive if Harry wasn't positive a normal human would never survive the trip. His entire body beneath the ache of the cold felt battered, as if someone had thrown him down the side of a mountain to roll and tumble to the bottom. And that was with Harry's healing, even if the circle was affecting that as well.

When he had studied what he could Harry started poking at the circle to see if he could use any of the knowledge to undo it. That didn't get him much farther than earlier and only left him further drained. Eventually he gave up and took to cuddling Ajah as much as he could while they waited. Harry had learned patience if nothing else these last two years.

A few more hours went by when Harry felt a shift. Something living popped up nearby. It was the first presence Harry had felt and more than likely the Hunter who laid the trap.

Harry petted Ajah and waited patiently and tried not to picture cheesy Bond scenes in his head while he did it.

His Gift began fluttering in the back of his mind as the presence came closer. Harry was instantly intrigued. His Gift had always been defensive, but never had it felt truly threatened. It had been a wolf among sheep. That flutter was the sense of one predator recognizing another. Compounding the mystery, Harry couldn't sense any sort of Gift from the presence even though that warning said otherwise.

Whoever was coming, he-it felt distinctly male now-was unlike anyone Harry had ever met on earth.

Harry stood and turned as he heard the echo of boots on the stone floor behind him. His Gift was coiled tight in his mind. His magic was no better as it bubbled to his hands only to drain away faster. Harry tried to lock it down. Even his magical core had a finite limit and he was running out of magic.

"What are you?"

The low, silken voice seemed to curl out of the shadows of the cave. Harry couldn't see anyone, but he was more than familiar with invisibility. He switched his vision from the normal gray to Death's sight.

The shadow of a man, dripping with chunks of inky blackness like the blood from massive wounds all across his body, appeared a few feet away at the mouth of the tunnel.

Harry instantly recoiled, slipping back to normal grays as he shook his head to clear the sight.

Harry had only ever seen that kind of damage on the long term mentally ill or abuse victims who were near dead.

That man shouldn't be standing let alone talking and coherent. The image of that broken body-the body was the health of the mind and soul in that between place-juxtaposed with the cultured, controlled voice and theatrics was so inherently wrong Harry's mind couldn't even process it.

As Harry looked down he realized what the original question had been for.

Harry had finally lost his glamor. It was the last thing to go which was good to note but didn't change the fact he didn't recognize his own gray skin, misproportioned limbs, and black claws. Was that an extra joint on his fingers? He clenched his hand tighter where he held Ajah to hide it. He didn't take his eyes off of his hand. That was enough to see.

Harry tried to pull up the glamour. He tried to flesh out his form and hide behind that veneer of humanity. But the magic kept slipping, pulled away by the circle. Gone before he could hope to use it.

He growled in frustration. The sight of his own skin made him want to claw and slough it off to cast away and forget.

The man chuckled at him, something rusty and broken. He stepped into the soft light of the candles, seemingly melting into being from the shadows. Harry could admire the effect if it didn't remind him so eerily of Death. Harry wasn't one for dramatics-most days.

The man was tall, well over six feet at Harry's guess. Harry never did break six feet, even after the changes. He'd always be stunted from his childhood. The man had skin almost as pale as Harry's own with black, greasy hair, haunted green eyes, and a gaunt frame. There were deep bags under his eyes that spoke of lasting grief and haunted dreams. The shattering sanity clinging at the edges of his gaze was all too familiar.

The man looked about as good as Harry felt these days. There was an odd kinship to this broken creature Harry didn't try to fight. Not after he saw those soul wounds. Not when the man might as well have been a mirror for Harry.

That damned Potter luck. Fate really was a bitch.

The man walked around Harry slowly, reading the runes around the circle. Harry knew many of them were diagnostic, a way to measure the power output of whatever the circle contained.

"Powerful, but not near some of the others. You're nearly exhausted, aren't you?"

Harry gritted his teeth, but did not answer.

"I've never seen anything like you, but many untouched and uncharted universes were lost these last few years. It's possible your species escaped my notice. I've never known any besides the Magi on Midgard to use _fylgja_ , before their blood feuds weakened them to infancy. Perhaps an alternate dimension? No, too predatory. Midgardians were sheep that tried and failed."

The man abruptly spun and flipped one of the wooden tables over in a crash and flurry of papers. Candles scattered hot wax and flame across the parchment and the man waved a hand carelessly over his shoulder. Ice spread and froze the flame solid where it tried to lick up the parchment.

That was a telling and rather terrifying show of magic and insanity.

"I can't have any more failures. There's not enough left. Not enough," he murmured.

The man didn't seem to be talking to Harry at all. He was waving his hands as if having a conversation with an invisible party, but Harry knew there was no one else in the room.

The man stilled and turned to Harry. Focused and unblinking.

"Tell me what you are. Tell me so I won't pull your kind again. I'll wipe them from the runes. Not strong enough for the Titan."

Harry froze. Titan.

A mad man's ramblings and it all made such sense Harry wanted to laugh.

He was laughing, on his knees in this carefully crafted prison cell; small and quiet and bitter.

He grinned at the man's questioning look. Insanity wasn't so bad when you had someone to share it with.

Harry Potter was a tool, always a tool to be used. In life and death. Human and not. One universe or the next, no matter the time. Harry would always be a tool.

The man hissed at him, actually hissed, when Harry made no attempt to answer his question as to what species he was. Maybe Harry would have if he knew.

"It's no matter. The circle failed."

The man sneered. His lip curled, his nose turned up, and sharp white teeth flashed. Harry was reluctantly impressed. It made him look completely barmy and more than put Snape to shame.

"I don't need another failure."

Before Harry could think to be insulted at the presumption the man strode forward. In the time it took for those three long strides he shifted from pale and human to pale and not-human-at-all.

His skin was icy blue, tribal markings appeared on his exposed hands and face, and his eyes were a rich shade of freshly spilled blood.

Harry quieted and watched. The man was a mirror, hundreds if not thousands of years into his future. Not normal, not human, only clinging to the remembered shell with magic and memory and a desperate hope for something that would never come.

It was a sobering thought.

The man pressed a hand through the plane of the circle and directly over Harry's heart.

Harry never blinked. It only took a heartbeat. His body froze solid from the inside out. Super healing wasn't infallible. Definitely not in the face of instant mass trauma.

Harry James Potter was murdered by a madman. Again.

* * *

Harry woke in the hazy gray of Death's demesne. It was a flat, dull, lifeless monotony. Unmoving even as he seemingly floated in the space. There was no sense of up or down or left or right. No sense of time. Everything was stagnant stillness.

It had been some years since Harry last saw Death in this space. She had always been present as she forced him through his 'training,' but she never stopped for conversation afterwards.

"Master."

The word echoed and whispered across the space.

"I never wanted to be your Master, Death."

Harry's own voice was silent. It was a thought, heard and acknowledged as Death faded into being next to him.

"And yet here you are. Master of Death and on the path that was set when the Hallows you passed their test. Master of Death you will be with every last breath you breathe."

Harry stared blindly into the gray nothing. "Now you're rubbing it in."

There was the haunting ring of a death knell, the play of wind through dead limbs. Death's laugh.

"It is the grief of the title that is chief for Death's Master. You know this matter."

Harry didn't try to catch Death's face. The living shadow of her clothing, her writhing hair and dead-live-dead body were too much for him to follow.

Yes, Harry knew. He knew and he even understood it. That didn't mean he had to accept it. Not yet. Harry didn't know how to concede the battle, not even in this.

He was stiff from being frozen so abruptly. His chest felt a bit like an elephant had sat on it but the aches were slowly healing. Harry had no way to track how much time passed while his body repaired and restarted itself. It was a distant sense of his physical self, a slow loss of his hold on this gray world as he returned to life.

A short conversation with Death here could mean hours for his body, assuming the man hadn't decided to burn him or something else equally damaging. He had no context for how long it would take to rebuild his entire form from ashes, or even what the limits of his healing were.

"No need to worry so. Every death of Master there Death will be to stop the dying and still the soul. Master, Death will not let you go."

Harry finally looked at the not-there face under the shifting shadow.

"I can't die. Ever. Can I?"

The shadows stilled. The hair fell slack. A hooded face, in the active process of rotting where Harry could see her mouth and chin and jaw bone, shook slowly side to side. A piece of her lip sagged and crumbled away.

No.

Harry chuckled. Silent but echoing in this between space, rebounding and doubling in sound as it went on and on. His nothing-lungs burned and his not-eyes teared as that chuckle turned to choked sobs.

All of his life Voldemort had been trying to kill Harry. Flamel, Grindelwald, Dumbledore, Riddle, all on a fool's quest for immortality.

Here Harry was, as immortal as it got, and he would never wish it on his darkest enemy or closest friend.

He cried until he was alive again, from one not-breath to an inhale that stretched his chest uncomfortably. There were frozen tears on his cheeks and a biting wind across his face. Every breath in felt like he was sucking up microscopic glass shards.

He groaned and forced stiff limbs up and standing. He patted his chest to confirm Ajah was unconscious and curled in his inner robe pocket and took a look at where he had woken up.

All he saw was an empty tundra that whipped frigid wind right into his bones. Nothing but snow and rocks and ice all around.

He felt the barest flicker of that single life at the farthest edges of his range. Visually it was the same as any other point of flat snow all around him.

One step at a time.

* * *

Loki did not know what to think of the strange creature his spell had called. He released the binding on the circle as soon as the body was dead.

He had intended to study the form more closely in order to prevent more of its kind being drawn into the circle. Instead, the siphoned magic that should have been absorbed into the natural flows of the planet flared up. It surrounded the form in a dark golden cage before disappearing with it completely.

Loki was stunned at the show of sentience. His own magic was carefully studied, learned, and manipulated. It did not act of its own accord. It could not. It was a tool to be harnessed from the natural flows of the universe and returned once its use was met. It couldn't bond with his form; Loki was only a conduit.

Even stranger was the clinging notes of Midgard on the creature. The glamor must have been immense to hide among the people for such time.

Perhaps there was more to this species than the power this one had displayed. Loki would study this new information. He only had one more chance.

* * *

Harry fell to the wind, snow, and jagged stones of the foreign world more times than he could count.

His magic was too exhausted to call up any sort of transfiguration or charm to block out the cold. Ajah was tucked in his inner pocket beneath his robe to stay as warm as possible.

Every time Harry's body stopped Death was there for the few seconds he floated in the gray space. Silent at his side as he screamed and ached and bled.

Even his blood was flash frozen to his skin before it could fall.

Why wouldn't she let him die?

Why couldn't he be free _?_

* * *

Harry had been trying to reach the looming mountain on the horizon for what felt like days. Seeing anything different from the flat horizon had been a success at first.

It wasn't a surprise he thought the flickering glow in the stone outcropping above was another trick of his dying body.

He lost count of the frozen fingers and toes, blackened and dead, that fell away. His nose and ears were gone. Every inhale was glass and grit. Every step was agony.

He fell to his knees inside the cave. Harry knew the sudden loss of the wind should have made him writhe as his exposed skin burned and prickled, but he couldn't feel the change. His body was too far gone in only sneakers, slacks, and the lightweight shirt beneath his equally light robe.

Harry died at his kidnapper's doorstep.

* * *

Loki jerked his head up from the notes he had been crafting around the strange creature's sentient magic.

His wards were ringing.

Impossible. Everyone was dead.

He walked cautiously to the entrance of the cave cloaked in shadow. Was this another illusion of his own mind? No, it felt too real...but others had as well.

He stopped at the sight of the creature's dead body. Everyone was indeed dead.

This dead body didn't seem to want to stay that way. Loki watched it regrow fingers and toes. A nose. It regenerated dead skin and frozen limbs with every inhale of Loki's breath. Because the creature was inarguably dead-or it should have been.

Loki avidly watched the macabre scene. He possessed advanced healing, but he had never seen anything this complex. Most certainly never within a body that was unequivocally deceased.

In the time it took Loki to blink, the body was no longer a body but a living creature once more. Even more fascinating, the glamour Loki had felt it grabbing at earlier in the circle settled onto its skin of its own accord, turning the monstrous form into an unassuming Midgardian man once more. Loki wondered if it would have ever fallen had it possessed enough magic.

His mind whirled with questions and plans and a resentful sort of glee as he physically dragged the breathing but unconscious body back to the circle and reactivated the runes.

He noted the glamour was advanced enough the true physical proportions were tucked away. He had expected to feel the sallow skin and sharp bone beneath the illusion but only felt smooth skin and muscle. For all intents and purposes the body was Midgardian. It only intrigued Loki further.

He had never seen such illusionary crafting. Even his own transformations-unless he altered his physical body which took time and energy-were tricks of the mind. An instantaneous shift, while unconscious, was unprecedented.

The circle worked. Loki grinned.

He had this mockery of a Midgardian to use for his plans.

His laugh was familiarly jagged as he closed the circle and the glamour drained away to leave the inhuman form.

Midgardians had worked so well against the Titan the first three times.


	6. Life in Death

**Life in Death**

 _ **MABalas**_

 _ **Posted: 09/19/17**_

 _ **Chapter: 5/8**_

 _ **AN: Sorry for the delay on this. I'm still not happy with it but felt bad for the wait so this is what you get. Got moved into the new house and subsequently taking on a new role at work so it's been a bit crazy. I normally don't like long ANs in chapters, so skip the next paragraphs and go right to the story if you don't care about my sense of series continuity or if you understand what the heck the Sentinel verse is. :)**_

* * *

 _ **When I started this project I wrote the entire rough draft (40k+ words) of the Harry/Riddick crossover, originally Book One of the Kings series, and realized the Harry I had created had not a damn bit of context for his OP and OOC (and I REALLY hate blatant out of character moments and OP characters with no context). So the Prequel was born, and the prequel kept growing, and it's STILL growing. It was originally a single-scene one shot that is now the very last chapter/scene of Pawn to King. Go figure. So for anyone confused by my use of prequel...I've removed it and now consider this Book One of the series.**_

 _ **For anyone confused on what a Sentinel or Guide is, god bless you because you're probably an adorable fluffball and not a grizzled oldie like me. :) Or you don't have an unhealthy obsession with AO3 (Archive of Our Own for anyone who feels the need to google it and lose their life to that particular time sink). Either way. The Sentinel was an old TV series the fandom world has since been bastardized for our own purposes. Find an excellent breakdown and fandom explanation by googling "sentinel verse explanation" and taking a read through Upright Infinity's tumblr post (infiniteeight8 . tumblr . com a few search results down brought on by the question I'm sure you're all asking: "What is this Sentinel/Guide business I keep hearing about?"). Apparently, the fandom is not as alive here on Fanfiction as it is on AO3. :) I wrote this fic with the assumption the background 'verse would be ingrained and have received a ton of questions on it!**_

 _ **Long story short, respect the Sentinel Verse; it's basically the start of all fanfiction!**_

* * *

Harry woke up expecting the same dull weight of icy limbs, the tingling burn of freezing skin, and the wind howling in his ears.

When there was nothing but the sound of his own breath in the stillness of the air he cracked open his eyes to stare up. Candlelit stone and shadows. That was a hell of a step up from a distant black sky full of imminent icy death.

He twisted slowly until he was on his knees with his arms wrapped around his aching chest. His back was stiff from lying on the stone floor for however long and his chest pulled with the stretch of every inhale. He could feel as his body repaired the last of the damage from the extended hypothermia.

He glanced down at the tugging around his internal organs-thinking of Death's shadows knitting him together from the inside out was still bloody creepy-and saw the dead-live pallor of his too-tight skin on his hands and where his sleeves had ridden up.

His glamour was gone. Which meant he was in that Merlin damned circle again. With his mind catching up he could feel the steady draw of his magic from his core, gone as quickly as his body could generate it.

"You were dead."

The voice broke into his thoughts from across the room. He glanced at the seemingly empty corner, but not with surprise. Curiosity. A part of him had been aware of the man's presence in the room from the moment Harry's heart began beating again. The habit was too ingrained for his Gift not to reach out and assess every possible threat nearby.

The words processed in his foggy mind and Harry stared at the corner as a flare of something woke inside. He thought it might be what adrenaline junkies felt in the moment before they leapt from a plane or off the side of a mountain. It certainly brought back memories of freefalling on a broom in a dive for the snitch and sneaking around Hogwarts after curfew in the invisibility cloak for Harry. It was something like danger and a dare and nervous exhilaration all in one.

Harry found himself quite done with people wanting to kill him simply because he couldn't match the mold they expected him to fill.

The pervading numbness of the last few months began to fade in light of the emotion. Harry felt like he had been in an extended dream. It was anyone's guess whether it was the reality of his inability to die finally settling in or he had lost his admittedly tenuous hold on his sanity, but Harry felt nothing in the face of this man but that twisted sense of anticipation.

Harry felt free, caged by runes and unable to hide behind his glamour, for the first time since he killed Voldemort. Harry was actually enjoying the challenge the man presented. The man did not fear him, did not glorify him, did not try to coddle or push him. He had no ulterior motives for the Savior of the Wizarding World or even Harry Potter.

No, the man only wanted him for his raw power. He had been brutally honest about that. This wasn't about any of his titles or his bank account or his bloodline or his political sway. There was something refreshing about that. A new way Harry could be used and manipulated.

Merlin, he really had lost it.

Harry laughed to himself. His magic was being siphoned as quickly as it regenerated. With his new clarity Harry stared resolutely at the hands of the monster he had become.

The change was starkly real when he was forced to look at the corpse-like pallor of his arms and hands, veins black beneath the sallow skin stretched over corded muscle. It was even more final as he stared at the too-long fingers. He flexed them carefully. With their extra joint for enhanced gripping and all tipped in ebony claws made to rip and rend it was easy to acknowledge to himself that he was a predator-a creation and extension of Death meant to deal death to all who tried to avoid their end or needed to meet it earlier than planned.

Harry delved deeper inside himself. The well of Death's power, twined gracefully around his magical core, beckoned to Harry's soul. It whispered a siren song of sound without language. Harry had only to ask and it would all be his to take and to use. Harry had been frightened of that promise of power for so long. It seemed rather ridiculous in light of this new, broken world with no life. Death was death. Nothing more and nothing less.

"Yes," Harry finally answered the waiting shadows. "I suppose I was dead."

The man laughed softly, unfazed, but for all the sound was pleasant to the ears it grated on Harry's mind. It was as if the agony behind the action had a psychic presence that vibrated at the perfectly wrong frequency against his shields. Harry felt like a cat that had its fur rubbed wrong and its tail tugged with a heavy hand.

Everything about the man was wrong. He was fundamentally wrong in the gut-churning, soul-unsettling way someone could only know when they stared at a stranger and saw their own future mirrored in an unknown face. It was a self-awareness as horrifying as it was captivating; the snake charmer's song to the serpent.

The man's form slipped from the shadows into the light, a curve to his lips like a blade's honed edge. Harry's answering smile met blade with fangs.

"Clever creature," the man murmured almost proudly, as if Harry was a particularly bright child of his. "Your heart ceased beating, your lungs ceased breathing, and every cell in your body froze solid. I killed you."

Harry turned his head to follow the soft footsteps as the man circled slowly around the runes caging him. The man's hands were held loosely behind his back and he took in every angle of Harry's inhuman form like someone observing a beast for purchase before it went to auction.

Harry didn't enjoy the comparison. "Yes, well, it didn't stick."

No response, but the man walked full circle to stare down at Harry. His eyes were fever bright with something bordering on fanaticism, a hint of an unhealthy color high on his cheeks if Harry squinted at the gray shading; all of it was a stark contrast to the carefully controlled tone of his words as he watched Harry.

"Not exactly normal corpse behavior. Please imagine my surprise when you came crawling back to die, again, at my doorstep four days later." He paused to stare at Harry. "I watched your body heal. Not even my kind can repair such extensive damage. Certainly not while deceased. None of the known species have that ability."

"Dead does usually stay dead," Harry agreed solemnly. Death was strict with her rules after all. Harry was very much an exception.

The man, or whatever he was, did chuckle at that as he dropped his own glamour. He was blue with red eyes again-the colors were hard to pick apart in the world of gray but Harry had experience-and this time Harry took a moment to catalogue the change as it spread across his skin. He observed the raised curves of the markings on the man's exposed face, arms, and hands. The eyes made the fevered gaze madder; the markings made him more dangerous on a visceral level, tribal and uncivilized. It was nearly the opposite of his cultured human appearance, stark black and white to this heavy gray shadow. It was like looking at two different people in one body and not knowing which was the truth.

"Death is usually final, yes." He paused to stare at Harry as if he was the keystone clue to the answer of all life's questions; the last piece in a lifetime-long collection. "But not for you. Tell me what you are."

Harry stared back blankly. Then he smirked; too many too-sharp teeth. "I am what I always will be."

The man's frown turned to a scowl. Angry but not afraid. He was as insane as Harry. More that that, even. He was all fraying edges and tangled string, something shattered too many times to find all the pieces again. At least Harry still had some semblance of himself.

"What are you? What power do you wield?"

Harry would not answer a question he had yet to figure out himself. The man didn't take the silence well.

"I can magnify your time on the tundra one hundred fold. You will beg to tell me your darkest secrets."

Harry barked out a laugh. "Really? Threats already? I like to at least make the acquaintance of any of my torturers first. It makes the moment you fail more personal."

The man narrowed his eyes.

"I am Loki Liesmith. The last of the Jotun and the Asgardians." He smiled coldly at Harry. "I have had many centuries to perfect my tortures. They have never failed."

"I am Harry. And people have been trying to torture and/or kill me for my entire life." He smirked. "Yet here I am."

Loki sneered.

A raised hand was Harry's only warning.

Power converged on the circle. He had no magic to combat whatever it was and he had enough self-control yet to ignore the call of Death's power in his core. After all, Harry wasn't only a wizard.

Harry was Gifted. Even more, Harry was a Guide.

His shields sensed the attack and his Gift responded. Whatever magic or illusion the man had tried to cast had been for his mind-likely to halt his sense of time and make him relive his deaths in the snow over and over again going by the particularly malicious flavor of it.

Too bad Harry had plenty of practice with people trying to force their way into his head.

The illusion met Harry's shields and shattered. His Gift ripped the power apart and aimed the pieces back at the man.

They shattered in turn against an emerald shield of magic Loki waved absentmindedly into existence. But Harry had Loki's attention.

"A Shield. A true Shield," the man whispered. Harry must have looked confused because Loki clarified, "Midgard called you Guides."

It was all the more sense Loki made for some time. Harry could see the isolation behavior clearly as the man began ranting to himself in whispers.

Harry caught some words as Loki paced around the room, but they made little sense to him. "...the illusion. A glamour...yes...seemed human…sentient magic-not Latent, no..."

Harry watched Loki Liesmith get lost in thought over his own words. Loki's pacing stopped abruptly and his eyes were worlds away. Harry could see him mentally check out for all that he stood right there. No one was home upstairs. It lasted a minute, maybe more, before Loki was back in the present.

He walked slowly around Harry again, observing him as if he were a new and unexpected species of roach discovered in a lab. It was a small step up from chattel.

"Your shields are superb. I've only ever seen similar in one other. You may have been hidden on Midgard before but I see you. I can read your signature now. You cannot hide. Never hide," he trailed off, his eyes going hazy again before snapping back to reality.

He was unnervingly focused on Harry. His expression had smoothed into something bland and mildly inviting, as if the world was made for his amusement and he wanted to let Harry in on the joke; a special secret for the two of them. The effect was a little skewed thanks to the barbarian look, but it was a damn good mask if Harry had ever saw one.

That train of thought had Harry cocking his head at the man-Jotun, Asgardian, whatever. Was this what the man might once have been? Was this the truth or the lie?

"If you existed in the Midgard even close to what I knew, Hunters-you would know them as Sentinels-must have been clinging and clawing at you. Fighting for your bond on a dare as much as a desire. All because their precious Centers told them you were broken and unsuitable; but they all knew under the official decrees there was so much more to you." His voice changed pitch, becoming soft and conspiratorial. "Because your Gift cannot be tested or categorized. Your Gift has claws, does it not? Claws and instincts where all the others have been diluted to nothing but trained pets, leashed and docile.

"And your innate magic," his face turned sincerely sympathetic; it was so convincing Harry was almost drawn in for a moment. "It must clash painfully with the Gift. They rip and tear at each other, I imagine. No rest from either side. Rightly you should be dead without a Sentinel bond. But I see staying dead may be a small issue for you."

The words hung in the frozen air. The man stood straight and smiled the small, content tip of the lips that could only come from a verbal barb more devastating than any blade or bullet.

Harry's mind halted as his Gift surged and swarmed over the man, trying to figure out how he could know. How could he put words to Harry's darkest thoughts? Delve so easily into his fears and truths.

Harry hadn't realized he had been harboring the hope his Gift would not matter here. But of course this world still had Sentinels and Guides. The rules would never change. Sentinels would always want the strongest Guides. Guides would always want the strongest Sentinels. It was as immutable as earth's sky being blue and the grass green.

"I can help you hide. Hide yourself so completely even Hunters here will not know what you are and the Midgard Sentinels will not know you from a non-Gifted. I need only a favor and in return I will teach you how to hide any and every trace of your Gift until it is your own secret to keep or divulge."

"A favor? Was it a favor when you stole me from my world and life? I owe you nothing."

"Yes, that," he mused. "The circle I've crafted is unique. Nothing else like it exists. What I needed was no longer available to me, and so I took the necessary steps to make it available.

"You're not only on a different planet at a different time. This is an alternate existence, a version of the universe you knew and that seems to be hundreds of years in the future from your knowledge. There is nothing you can go back to now. Midgard is gone. Humans are extinct. It's all long dead. The only way is forward if you wish to go back."

Harry closed his eyes. He had known that, somewhere in his bones. He had sensed that change. His connection with Death had whispered the truth of it.

There was something fundamentally broken in this universe. The balance of life and death was too far gone to Death. There was nothing that could be fixed here. There was only the end.

"Apocalypse."

Loki stiffened and watched Harry warily. He obviously hadn't expected Harry to realize the truth.

"Yes. Ragnarok. Revelation. The apocalypse. Whatever you wish to call it this universe is dead. But the being responsible for this end is not, and he will continue to consume all life."

Harry stared at an interesting crack in the rock wall for a few seconds as he took in those words. Someone had caused this discord. Death itself had abandoned this universe, the scales tipped too far out of her control to fix. Harry was the fulcrum point, the knowledge of it all coming too easily to his mind.

This broken universe was his real purpose as Master of Death. This was the reason for his training. The truth of it was a bullet train coming full speed while he stood on the tracks. Death and Life were balance, and only Harry had the power to restore it.

Loki seemed to sense he was winning Harry over.

"You were hiding on Midgard when the circle ensnared you? On earth?"

"Of a sort," he said tiredly.

"It was one of the first worlds destroyed by the Titan."

Harry feels nothing but harsh truth in the blunt words. "Because humans fight. They survive. It is few who welcome Death's embrace." Harry's lips quirked. "Especially from alien overlords out to destroy the planet."

Loki visibly flinched at the words. Huh. There was a story there.

"So I've learned," he whispered. "But in the end they all died," he went on in that same quiet tone. "Humans are extinct. Wiped away after their heroes rose up to try to stop the Mad Titan before he could claim all of the stones of power and failed spectacularly."

Loki's voice was flat but the pang of sorrow, regret, and bitter hatred for himself and likely the Titan at those words spoke the real story behind the sentence.

"Once he had them, there was no more hope. Worlds fell. Species tried and failed to fight and they were all eradicated. Sentient or not. Peoples, animals, plants. Nothing is left. I am the last of my kind. I am the last of any kind," he finished softly.

There was silence as Harry took in the enormity of the man's words. The last living person in the universe. Even Harry's shields could not completely keep out the sea of loss and sorrow. There was so much said in the pauses between the syllables. So much regret in the breath between words.

"Why did the Titan let you live?"

It had to be asked. If nothing else could stop the Titan, it made no sense Loki had somehow escaped him.

Loki's smile was brittle. "Punishment. I played a dangerous game started out of childish spite decades ago and I did not come out the victor. I thought I could maneuver the pieces and I was maneuvered in turn. My punishment and penance has been to watch it all burn around me. I do not have the power now to move through universes. I cannot escape it and I cannot fix it. I will die in the very realm I despised and ridiculed despite calling it my birth home."

Harry blinked. That was a lot of fucked up in that punishment. Even Voldemort hadn't been that deranged or cruel.

"I am the only one," Harry said slowly; he wanted to offer some semblance of peace to this broken creature, "ever made of my kind. No others will ever be created. No others will ever understand. I will never die and never age but I can feel every wound and I know every death." The words were hollow in this dark cave. "I was human. Once." Stark in their truth. "Even with my presence now humans are still extinct. I only hold the image of my former self. There is nothing human left." Harry held up his pale hand and sharp claws to study them. "Not really."

Loki leaned towards Harry, grief carved into his skin and the light of madness in his eyes. A desperate creature, scrabbling for the last shreds of hope in a hopeless world.

"And what are you, then? What have you been made. Humans failed, I failed, all of the others failed. We need something more."

"Yes. You do," he agreed.

He did not look away from Loki. Harry reached into the vortex of Death's power around his magical core, that link that was there but never really accessed.

Harry grabbed the power with both hands, metaphorically speaking, and ripped open the door.

There were no words to describe the rush. The instant change. Death's power filled up the cracks and crevices inside and spilled into a writhing darkness outside his skin. Harry felt like he could breathe. Even better, the gray faded from his vision and for the first time since waking as the Master of Death Harry saw color again. All of the colors of Death and his Gift. He had to blink a few times to take in the striking contrast of mad red eyes and blue skin, the yellow glow of the candles and shadow-cloaked brown and gray of the stone walls and floor. The dark wood of the tables. The parchment yellow of the notes and equations littering the room.

Color. Life in his acceptance of Death. Again. Harry could appreciate the being's sense of dramatic irony.

He can't go back to his time. Not the way he came. Every word rings Loki's truth in that. His only choice is forward. Every instinct-Magical, Gifted, and Death-says this universe is too broken to fix. The Mad Titan had left this future horrifically wronged. It could not be corrected.

But this was only one possible future. Harry could take the steps to ensure the others had a chance.

His decision made, Harry funneled Death's power into the circle. There was no drain, no draw, no cost. Harry wished it and Death's power complied, the visible darkness moving at his command.

With an audible crack the tendrils slithered through the power of the runes like ivy through stone. Inexplicable and inevitable. The circle cracked and shattered, the stone floor physically cracking under the backlash of broken power.

Harry stepped through the circle in a blaze of black shadow and gold sparks as his magic flooded back to mix with Death's power. His glamour settled on his skin like a favorite coat, hiding the true Harry from the world once more.

"You called at the end for an end, Loki Liesmith."

Loki cackled madly at the show; his eyes glittered as his own illusion poured down his body to match Harry, leaving the Liesmith in his human appearance of pale skin and black hair in some silent, twisted game of Simon Says that only existed in Loki's brain.

Harry smiled, a wolf who had lost his sheep skin. No matter the time or place, living or dead, Harry was a means to an end. Nothing more and nothing less.

There was a certain freedom in that.

He stared into the madness of Loki's eyes and found that same jittery eagerness from before rising. Death's power still swirled about his legs and feet like a cat greeting its beloved master home from a too-long trip.

Harry stroked a hand through the air and the darkness came all too willingly to his request. He let it pool and play about his fingers and palm, dancing it around like a living liquid in a subtle show of power that had Loki's face near split in two from his manic grin.

"An end you have been given. I am the Master of Death. Judge and jury. Pardon and execution. Subject to neither life or death. I am what I always will be and will be what I always am."

Loki clapped once in ecstatic excitement before his smile turned predatory.

"Then let the end begin."


	7. Death in Life

**Death in Life**

 _ **MABalas**_

 _ **Posted: 10/17/2017**_

 _ **Chapter: 6/8**_

* * *

Harry wasn't sure what he expected from Loki Liesmith. He was a more than half mad, self-proclaimed god.

Whatever Harry had expected, it hadn't been...this.

They were uncannily alike. The idea of that had been slow coming, something Harry picked up on as hours spread into days and days into weeks. Time became meaningless as Harry and Loki fell into an easy routine of study and meditation. It was in that routine that the slips of the tongue revealed the kindred history.

Harry still wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Loki had already taught Harry more about the raw magic of the universe than what he learned in all his years at Hogwarts. Loki had also shown his cracks. Moments where his mind slipped to lost family, mistakes on a planet-wide scale that led him to this end. If only Hermione were here to help Harry learn-

 _Smack!_

"Fuck!"

Harry pressed a hand to the stinging cut on his forehead. He could already feel it closing.

"Did you just throw a rock at me?"

"More meditating, less daydreaming," Loki answered. He didn't even bother looking up from the notes he was making at the table across the room.

"How in Merlin's name do you always know when I'm distracted?" Harry muttered more to the room than the dark haired god. "I don't even move!"

"If you listened when I told you to meditate you would have the same skill. And then you would know that is a stupid question. For Death's 'judge and jury' you complain more than I expected."

Merlin's tits, it was like having a petty, male version of Hermione in permanent research mode around.

* * *

Harry had the meditation down a few weeks later.

Once he knew the pathway he found it easy to slip into that still space in his mind. From there it was child's play to move the natural raw magic found on any planet to his will. He had always been good with the practical side of magic.

Learning to harness the natural magic also made it annoyingly easy to track the focus of any living being close by as their latent energy fields interacted with the background flow of raw magic. It was a sense similar to his Guide skills but on a more physical level, like watching magnetic fields pull and repel.

He could see the fields disperse out when Loki was unfocused and relaxed, and tighten in when he was aware and on task. As the only living things left to watch were himself and Loki….

Loki's smirk when Harry came out of the meditation with the skill was the 'I told you so' Harry despised.

* * *

For Loki's people, the Jotun, the distinction between a Shield and Guide was important.

What earth had called Primitives, what had made Harry undesirable, was highly sought and the hallmark of a Shield in Jotunheim. A Shield was a Hunter's right-hand, an equal partnership of power and skill. Strong Shields were rare.

"A treasure among treasures," Loki sneered one day.

A treasure to use and lock up again, Harry finished in his mind. Harry knew the words were a quote. There was too much pain and bitterness for anything else.

It gave Harry a vivid and uncomfortable insight into Loki's past and exactly how the god knew so much about Shields.

Harry was almost afraid to know with certainty one way or the other.

* * *

Becoming a Shield meant learning to combine the energy fields of the raw magic of the planet with his own magic and his Gift.

It was the same idea behind experimental military cloaking using light to distort actual shapes and forms. Only, Harry was using raw and innate magic to distort the Gift.

Loki trained Harry from the ground-up not only how to hide but how to be a Shield-not a Guide. For Loki's people, the Jotun, the distinction between a Shield and Guide was important. What earth had called Primitives, what had made Harry undesirable, was a mark of power and the hallmark of a Shield in Jotunheim. A Shield was a Hunter's right-hand, an equal partnership of power and skill. Strong Shields were rare and highly sought. A treasure among treasures, Loki often sneered.

Gifted were a touchy subject for them both, it seemed.

Learning how to cloak and how to Shield was far harder than manipulating the raw magic and still a work in progress, but it was everything and more Harry would have never learned from the Center.

* * *

"Again."

Harry tried to catch his breath. He had lost track of the hours or even days Loki had forced him to construct the shields again and again as the Asgardian hurled mind magic at him.

Without any sort of break.

They were both hardier than a human, but Harry was forcing his shields and the raw magic he had learned to conform in ways they never had before. He had to break decades of bad habits created instinctively as a child and reshape them to Loki's training if he wanted any hope of being a true Shield. It wasn't a bloody walk in the park.

Loki didn't give him the chance to recover. Harry flinched as a particular shade of green spell caught the corner of his eye.

His exhausted mind flashed to Voldemort and the Killing Curse at the worst moment. Death's power flared out in a black cloud to catch the spell before Harry caught up.

The tendrils viciously shredded the pure magic in midair.

Harry and Loki both stared as what remained of the spell faded out of existence to be absorbed by the streams again. The black tendrils still hovered warningly around Harry's body.

"That is useful," Loki finally said.

Harry stared at Loki in disbelief.

He could kill magic. He could bloody _kill_ magic.

Loki grinned manically back, as if he knew what Harry was thinking and found it the height of hilarity. A silver ball of power formed in the god's palm.

"Now do it again."

* * *

The magical and Gifted knowledge was not without its cost. A small price, really, when Harry considered the twisted mind of his new flatmate: a cross of Luna's eerie knowledge, Hermione's wit, Harry's own sense of practical jokes, and with an all-in-all more unstable bend.

And no, that wasn't just a generalization on Harry's part. A few moments were defining in Harry's list of Loki's characteristics.

One. Loki taught Harry the raw magical craft from both Asgardian and Jotunn cultures. The spells and runes were even older than the ancient egyptian Harry had studied on earth. Much of it had no direct way to teach. Either Harry followed the intuition of the forms...or Loki killed him.

Harry was lucky he had infinite chances.

Two. Loki used him as a convenient test subject, often without warning, of new spells or potions. Not all of these were successful.

Harry visited with Death quite often.

And three and four. Harry more than lost count of the times Loki would give him a cheshire grin right before he transported Harry onto some godforsaken side of the planet to find his own way back to their cave home.

And it was always a new spot every time.

With a ward against apparition.

(Harry became exceptionally well versed in magical tracking and wayfinding after the first few times he was stranded at the top of a frozen rock and left to die.)

There was only so much Loki could teach Harry, however. After they discovered Death's trick with killing spells, Loki encouraged Harry to explore the power. They began to include Death's shadows in their sparring and training.

Harry discovered offensive and defensive skills; killing magic was the least of it. Death's shadows could be turned into a physical shield at Harry's will. They could be used to cloak and disguise Harry's form. They could be used to eavesdrop on Loki while he brewed his next concoction he called a potion and they could be used to physically manipulate the environment, like an extension of Harry's own arms.

Harry mercilessly moved Loki's notes, books, and potion ingredients around once he found out about that skill. The physical exhaustion after using the shadows that way-making the intangible tangible and as dextrous as his own fingers-was worth every moment of aching muscle in the face of Loki's open aggravation when he tried to find his misplaced things.

Harry learned to integrate the power with his own magic. He learned to harness only as much as he needed rather than the power by firehose he initially had to deal with.

Then Harry discovered the puffs.

* * *

Harry called them puffs, because at first that's all they looked like. Shadow puff balls that Harry could pull out of Death's power around him like pulling a stray thread from a sweater. A thread that stretched taught and snapped into a semi-sentient ball of shadow-colored fluff. No faces, no appendages, just…fluff.

They were made of Death's shadow but powered by his own magic. Harry could feel his connection to each one. Nothing like emotion or pain, just the sense of his magic animating the puff, a piece of his magic inside making itself known to him. It was enough to give him a sense of where each puff was at any point until they either killed themselves-walking too hard into a wall was enough to do that, they weren't the hardiest or brightest-or Harry called them back to be reabsorbed into the shadow.

It was the first of his skills Harry did not share with Loki, mostly because he had no idea what to do with it. Then Harry made a puff out of boredom one day, and had the thought to set it on the task of tidying up his sleeping area.

The puff morphed as Harry watched into something much more like a cross between a house elf and a goblin. The shadow deepened, became more, somehow, and Harry simply knew that it was suddenly a hell of a lot hardier than any of the puffs.

It efficiently tidied up Harry's sleeping area like Harry had set it on a secret mission to save the world instead of making the bed. It used Harry's own magic powering it to magically clean the clothes and sheets and fold them all and make the bed. Everything was perfectly made in less than ten minutes. At that point Harry watched the more-than-a-puff-now step into the shadow cast at the end of the bed from the candlelight and simply disappear. A moment later Harry felt rather than saw it smush itself back into the shadows still around him from Death's power; it was the zing of his magic returning home that alerted him to its movement at all.

That was pretty damn useful.

Harry took great pleasure setting the goblin-puffs (not very creative but that had never been his strength anyway) to harass Loki at all hours of the day for the next few weeks. It was even more perfect that the goblin-house-elf shaped shadow puffs could immediately disappear into the surrounding darkness as Harry instructed them to not be caught doing anything.

Loki could never actually catch (what he had to assume was) Harry doing anything.

It was brilliant.

* * *

Creating the puffs seemed to have no limits. He filled his entire room with them one night simply to see if he could. And he had an army of black puff balls rolling and tumbling all over each other. A bunch of them poofed out in the ruckus and were replaced with three more. It was alarming how easy they were to make, actually.

For whatever reason they also reminded him of tribbles and really, how did he even remember seeing that episode one holiday at Hermione's house? Good thing it only took a good poke or jostle to send the puffs back to Harry's shadows or that would be a terrifying thought.

The goblin-puffs were another story. No amount of poking, prodding, or even a blasting curse on one memorable occasion, could slow them down. They either finished what they were set, or Harry had to make the direct effort to call them back.

Harry never called them back.

More than one chair was pulled out either right before or while the god sat, potions ingredients were switched mid-brew, and complex notes exchanged for ridiculous song lyrics-in pig latin.

* * *

It was an all over balance, befriending Loki while staying away from the man's many triggers. The god had lived for centuries to collect them, after all.

Some days Harry could almost see the glimpse of a Loki unburdened by the life he'd endured. Someone too clever, with a love of verbal games and practical jokes; someone who simply needed a friend.

Other days Harry thought Loki had finally snapped. He paced manically, spoke rapidly in languages even Harry's ability as Master of Death had to take a moment to translate, and lashed out at anything and everything in his path. Tables were flipped, papers shredded and burnt, and even the skyline altered when he popped out to obliterate a mountain range-though that extreme measure was usually reserved for the really bad triggers.

Like SHIELD.

Harry had no idea Loki had been involved with them, though he should have expected it after Director Fury working with the magical governments and trying to recruit Harry for their little hero venture. Of course SHIELD would want their hands on an alien.

Harry had no idea what Director Fury did, but the one time Harry had got even halfway through 'Director' Loki had frozen the entire room-with Harry in the center of it.

He'd really had enough of death by ice. He never tried to broach the subject of the Director again.

Certain colors were a trigger for the god, much like his own aversion to the particular shade of Avadra Kedavra green. Loki's was a particular shade of icy blue.

Loki broke Harry's hand to cut off that spell.

Thunder, or at least this planet's version of it with the constant cold, was another trigger. In many ways it was worse than all of the others. Loki didn't lash out or become violent. He withdrew completely into himself.

Loki would remain silent for days afterwards, nearly catatonic while he was lost in memories of his fallen brother. Harry knew only of the brother from brief stories, some less than two sentences, of his foolishness, vanity, and lack of intelligence. Loki never spoke his name, only insults for identifiers. Harry highly doubted the man's name had been 'hammer-wielding ox with less forethought than a household hound.'

For all of the negative connotation, however, Loki could not hide the truth from Harry. Loki's eyes were most haunted when he told those stories, even less than two sentences long.

Loki's eyes were always full of bitter grief and unspoken apologies long after the thunder was gone.

* * *

Time was meaningless while Harry learned. He had a purpose. A goal.

What Harry could never adjust to was the silence.

Earth had always had a background chatter, a sense of all of the living entities. Earth had a heartbeat and breath. Now there was only one heartbeat. One soul to watch. Finally accepting his power over life and death didn't do much when the balance was already so buggered.

Harry mentioned the background silence to Loki one day.

The response was very much unproportionate to the question. At least, Harry thought so. Whatever trigger Harry had hit, it was excessive.

The god's magic snapped out and met Harry's own in a blinding display of green and gold power fueled by twisted rage. Harry had no idea how long they stood lashing power against power, skill against skill. At one point tendrils of Death's power actually tried to intercede, but Harry had no desire to kill Loki.

The last Asgardian and Jotun was an injured animal backed into a corner and lashing out on instinct. This was lancing the wound with centuries of festering pain pouring out in an infected, bloody mess-regardless of whatever the original wound had been.

By the end of it they were both exhausted. Loki had passed out from the stress and exhaustion and Harry had a gaping hole in his chest being studiously knitted back together by the shadows. It actually left a faint scar at the end of it.

Harry supposed magic literally ripping into his chest and breaking his ribs to try to get at his heart over and over again would do that.

* * *

That day was the first time Harry saw Loki dream.

Harry never saw Loki sleep. He must have been leaving some sort of double or illusion while he went off to another part of the planet to rest, because Harry definitely would have noticed the thrashing and hoarse cries and muttered names before.

Most notably were the names Jormungandr, Fenrir, and Hela. Notable because Loki seemed to be dreaming of children. Harry's knowledge of Norse mythology was virtually zero, so he had no idea where the three fell in the scheme of things. Harry knew it was bad, however.

Because Loki dreamed of children, and loss, and Ragnarok.

Loki dreamed of his own children, their murders and loss, and the end of the world as he knew it.

* * *

Harry never said anything to Loki about his dream or his possible children, but it did give Harry the courage to ask another question that had been growing for a while.

"How do you know so much about Guides and Shields? Sentinels and Hunters?"

Loki paused in writing the observations he had been taking on a new ritual. It was something Loki had been working through for the last few weeks now. Harry hadn't bothered to try to figure out its purpose yet. He was sure Loki would want to test it on him soon enough.

The silence dragged on, and Harry wasn't really expecting an answer. But he got one.

"When I was but a child coming into my power I learned the unpleasantness of being Gifted, as you call it," the god started slowly. "I learned what it was to have my trust betrayed and my mind stolen. I learned to use my skills to hide and camouflage myself because I refused to ever bow to any being, especially a Hunter who sought to control me." His smile turned biting as he watched Harry. "We can see how well that turned out."

He waved a hand in the air and Harry had to take a step back. Harry had suspected, but the truth was more than that. Loki was a Shield, and a damn strong one. Almost as strong as Harry.

"You are the first being I have revealed myself to in over a millennium," Loki said almost thoughtfully.

That was a declaration of friendship and trust if Harry had ever heard one.

"The Hunter?" Harry asked carefully.

Loki grinned, and Harry was happy he wasn't truly an enemy. There was far too much vicious joy in that smile. "I ripped the bond out of my mind and destroyed him."

That was it.

Loki waved his hand again as he turned back to his observations, cloaking himself so completely Harry still couldn't sense his Gift, even actively looking for it. Harry finally gave up and went back to studying the tomes Loki had crafted for him.

Harry never stopped thinking about Loki's words. Loki had ripped out the bond, which meant Loki had trusted whoever the Sentinel was. Someone as strong as Loki would have been able to block him otherwise. The Sentinel had preyed on a young boy's trust and twisted it into ownership.

Harry had seen those Sentinels on earth. Men and women who thought themselves superior because of the strength of their Gift and their heightened senses. Sentinels who found Guides to be delicate dolls to coddle and protect or nothing but tools to bring out and use before storing again. As if the Guides couldn't think for themselves or were less than their Sentinel.

Loki didn't have to explain the cost of ripping out that bond. It would have left the Sentinel's mind completely broken. If they had survived that they would have been feral. Feral Sentinels had to be put down for everyone's safety if there was no bonded Guide to pull them back.

There was no telling what scarring had been left in Loki's shields and mind. If he had been a child when it happened...Harry understood Loki a little more. It was always the forgotten, the betrayed, and the lost who built the best mirror to redirect the world.

The younger it started, the more ornate the glass grew.

* * *

Time was meaningless to them, both powerful and timeless in their own right. Each studying crafts only time could inure in their skills and minds.

Each that little bit mad in their own way.

Some days Loki would disappear and Harry would watch a mountain crumble on the horizon or a storm rage on the plains.

Some days Harry would stand in the freezing wind, staring into the galaxy beyond as he sought even a single sense of life outside their rock. Anything else to listen to.

There was nothing.

Neither of them truly required food, only melted snow for water every few days. Neither of them dared sleep until their bodies would not function otherwise. Neither wanted to face their memories.

It was a steady, simple way to be. Neither demanded more than what was needed from the other. Neither would mention the slip of a tongue on nostalgic days, or the half-finished sentences when the next words were too painful to voice.

It was never lost on Harry that he had been kidnapped and coerced into becoming an assassin by a half-barmy norse god. Or that Harry had come to call the crazy bastard a friend.

...Or that Harry had never felt so in control of his own life before.

* * *

Harry eventually learned everything he could from Loki.

The final piece was Loki's knowledge of how to pass between the planets and planes of the universe, in the secret paths between worlds.

Loki never showed Harry the paths directly. The Titan's curse would not let him leave. But he showed Harry the door and explained the theory. Harry practiced his own version of it, utilizing his magic and Death's power to create something he called stepping. Not quite apparition, not quite using the paths, but something in between.

With that settled, Harry set out to finish the task of killing the Titan.

* * *

AN: Ugh, another rush job. Please let me know if you see any spelling/grammar issues. I didn't do my usual self-editing and need to come back to this one later. I made a promise to myself that I would not pick up Finding Fire again until I had this story finished. So it's getting done before the end of the month, dammit! I'm getting the One Piece bug again!


	8. Pawn to King

**_Pawn to King_**

MABalas

 ** _Posted: 11/02/2017_**

 ** _Chapter: 7/8_**

* * *

 ** _Thank you to everyone for sticking with this! Officially this is the last chapter for Pawn to King. The final chapter is an epilogue kicking off the next story in the King Series._**

 ** _As a note, the next story will be taking place in the Riddick (2013) movie verse and WILL be slash. In fact, it will be Harry/Riddick slash which is the idea that started this whole venture. If you haven't read my profile by this point, I'm sorry to disappoint anyone on that front. I like slash. There will be future het too, but yeah. Slash. Man on man action._**

 ** _Again, thank you so much for all of the support and love and enjoy! (You have no idea how many times I've rewritten this chapter. Seriously. Thanos is hard to write.)_**

* * *

Stepping from a breathable atmosphere into a non-breathable void shouldn't have surprised Harry. Loki had described Sanctuary and its inhabitants in enough detail the night before he should have equated "asteroid field in outer space" to "asteroid field in outer space which really means outer space with no oxygen to breathe."

His magic crackled across his skin almost immediately, instinctively covering Harry in a sort of pseudo-suit against the effects and holding him to the rock he stood on. That was one problem solved. The whole boiling moisture and bursting lungs was one way to die he was happy to avoid personal knowledge of, thank you.

Safe for now, Harry took his time observing the area from the shadows he was cloaked in. He could feel the difference in this section of space from the surrounding planes, a sort of dimensional pocket tucked between the set universes. With the Infinity Stones Thanos could control space and time.

It was confirmation for Harry that Thanos needed to be stopped. If he had the power to move between the various universes and timelines at will then there was nothing to stop Thanos destroying all of time and life.

The Titan could slip between this present and the past; he could go back and destroy Harry's friends. Hermione. The twins. He could stop earth ever being created.

He could destroy Harry's home. Far more permanently than it was now.

The shadows thickened around Harry and his magic surged as the possibilities grew in his mind.

Either Harry was overly paranoid or Thanos was overly cocky not to have thought of the possibilities and ended this all before it began. Likely a bit of both, going off Loki's knowledge of the Titan.

The skill for sensing the various universes and time streams was something Harry had explored outside Loki's tutelage. He knew he would need the skill to get back to his own time and place, and it had proven more than useful when Harry found he could carve his own chunk in the between places. There were some benefits to being Death's Master aside from being a glorified Gifted matchmaker.

Similar to Thanos' Sanctuary, Harry had made his own personal dimensional pocket he could use to tuck away his valuable items or even hide himself if need be. Better than Thanos, he was the only one who could access it. He had cloaked it in Death's power and set some nasty wards for anyone who did happen to miraculously stumble on it.

Harry's wanderings from asteroid to asteroid as he thought finally got him his first glimpse of the Chitauri. Loki had warned him they called this rocky section of space desolation their home. Overwhelmingly loyal to Thanos-who let them maim, murder, destroy, and conquer at will-they were his foot soldiers and a large part of his power base.

To Harry's eyes they were dripping with the oily sludge of corruption and unbalanced death. There was not a single one he glanced that could ever hope to be redeemed.

Good. Harry was hoping it would go that way.

Harry threw off the concealing shadows in the middle of an asteroid easily the size of the Hogwarts Great Hall. He was left in his pale human guise wearing a loose cotton black shirt and pants.

Where Loki dressed to impress, Harry preferred to dress practically. Blood was a bitch to get out of leather, no matter the dramatic flair it brought.

He smiled as hundreds of eyes turned on him. These things still haunted many of Loki's nightmares. Harry could understand why-torture of all kinds would be nothing for them. They thrived on pain and misery; their black souls reveled in it.

The first Chitauri came, weapons blasting and knives flashing as a murmur of feral excitement spread out in a circle from where Harry stood.

Golden magic flashed, wielded like a blade and shield to cut down anything that moved.

Blood sprayed across Harry's face.

He was the chosen of Death, a Primitive Guide, and a trained Shield.

A Chitauri gurgled behind him as his magic gutted it; at the same time the head was nearly severed from the Chitauri in front of him and the blow continued to cut through the body next to the nearly headless corpse.

A leviathan tried to crush the asteroid where Harry fought. He sent out a whip of magic that cut and cauterized the beast nearly the length if its body. Its corpse floated past.

The murmur turned into a roar around him. More Chitauri poured in. It was only a matter of time before Harry was overwhelmed.

When the flash of his magic and the burn in his arms was no longer enough, he threw up a shield shoving all of the surrounding Chitauri back in a good 10 meter diameter.

Then he called out the puffs.

10, 20, 100 and more. They filled up the space inside the shield and began stacking on each other, flowing in and out like a living, amorphous ball of shadow colored slime.

Hundreds of faceless, deathless soldiers waiting for his orders.

He grinned madly. It felt comfortable on his face now.

"Kill every Chitauri."

Shadow morphed, solidified, and the puffs became knee-high, goblin-esque shades with deadly teeth and claws. Silent killers who had no will but Harry's own and felt no pain or weariness; the perfect soldiers.

Harry dropped the shield.

Chitauri and shades met in a crash of sound.

Blood sprayed.

Too bad shadows couldn't bleed.

* * *

Harry against the Chitauri army had been a fight.

With the shades in play it was a slaughter.

An army, even a remorseless and technologically advanced one, was only a number.

Take one away again and again and eventually the able bodies would hit zero.

* * *

When nothing moved, when there was only the sound of silence, Harry stopped to catch his breath.

It had been draining on his magic to hold so many shades for so long while still fighting. He didn't feel whole again until the last of them had returned. It was a potential weakness he took careful note of.

In that small window of waiting for the final shades to return he took the time to regroup himself. His shadows had gotten involved at some point, living darkness sucking away life, and his more inhuman aspects were bleeding through. He focused his breathing and cloaked himself securely in the glamor once more.

He surveyed the battleground as the final shade was reabsorbed into his cast shadow. Bodies were strewn around the asteroid field. The leviathans floated dead in the space around him.

He was satisfied with the results, a new dark part of him happy with the judgement and execution. Harry couldn't find it in himself to care after he had combed through some of their minds and found the Chitauri severely lacking. A clean genocide had been too gentle for them.

Harry had to step over and on and through the bodies. He moved through the severed limbs, blood, and other more dubious liquids to continue to where he could sense the Mad Titan. He honestly wasn't sure how long the Titan had been there, but the so called Dark Lord-the Chitauri had chittered the title over and over in their odd language, ironically enough-had never made a move to stop Harry or his shades.

That either said a lot about Thanos' intelligence or his arrogance. Harry was really going to guess the latter at this point. Blind arrogance seemed a required trait in Harry's experience with Dark Lords.

Harry found Thanos seated on a stone throne at the far edge of Sanctuary. The Infinity Gauntlet was on his hand; it practically blinded Harry with the glowing power generated by the six stones. Not physically, but magically.

"What a creature the Liesmith has sent to me this time." Thanos' voice filled the space and seemed to carry its own presence. Part of that was Thanos himself but Harry could see the magic from the stones bolstering the sound in translucent waves of power. "I have never seen one such as you. Why hide in this parody of humanity? Drop the glamour so I may clearly see the being that has single handedly destroyed my most loyal army."

Harry smiled pleasantly at Thanos' massive form. He could feel the blood and bits of flesh that had become tacky on his face.

He dropped his glamour. Obviously the stones could see through what Loki could not. He stood before the Mad Titan in stark truth.

"Thanos," Harry acknowledged. He didn't break eye contact.

"So you are aware of who I am and the death you court." The massive form settled leisurely back into the throne. "It was a favor killing the Chitauri for me. They were no longer useful to my plans."

"Death is the last being I would ever wish to court. And the Chitauri were dealt with in retaliation for Loki Liesmith, not myself. I am here for you, Thanos."

Thanos watched him, seeming to take in Harry's form. Harry stared back, observing the unnatural aura around the Titan.

The failures to stop Thanos made sense. Thanos couldn't be killed. Whatever species he was did not know death. He was a true immortal, like Harry; unlike Harry-who had Death's favor-Thanos could be stopped, if not killed.

The gauntlet gleamed in the low light as the self-proclaimed Most Powerful Being in the Universe sat straighter on his throne.

"I have had many who called themselves enemy. All of them now rotting flesh and splintered bones. What do you think will stop me from adding your worthless corpse to the pile?"

"Death will not come so easily for me."

Thanos was not amused. Harry's Gift easily picked up the shot of anger encasing twisted fanaticism and a spark of a corrupted power trip. The Mad Titan was an apt title for the giant.

"No? Let us see then how your mortal shell fairs."

Thanos strode forward. He was faster than Harry had thought possible for such a large being.

A tire-sized fist swung at Harry's face, cutting through Harry's own magic like mist. Not the gauntleted hand, just Thanos' bare fist.

It was Harry's combat training that kicked in and made Harry raise both arms in a block. It was muscle memory, and he honestly didn't expect it to work. Running would have made less sense. Harry wasn't a match physically for Thanos.

The blow connected. Harry's muscles burned and strained. For a moment, he thought his muscles would snap from the shock. Death's power surged in his core and then the force of the blow cratered the rock where Harry stood in a burst of powder and stone.

Harry blinked. His arms were still raised in a block above his head. The Titan's fist was millimeters from his face.

"You would defy me," Thanos sneered.

Harry didn't need to be a Guide to know the giant was pissed.

Thanos stood straight to look at him like fresh dog shite on his shoe. Harry knew because Snape had used the same expression nearly daily.

"Die."

The command was intoned with power.

There was a flash of power from the gauntlet.

Harry was dead before his body hit the floor.

* * *

"Master is a child yet, playing with fire and its get. Now Death will lose her bet if Master his limits has met," a faintly disapproving and disappointed voice spoke.

Ow, Harry thought.

"Indeed. The Titan is one to heed. He plays no games and suffers no shame in stealing souls in Death's name. Foolish-his arrogance knows much; it is Master's place to ensure the Mad One can no longer rush at those he has no right to touch."

Harry sensed Death getting closer. Why could he not feel the tug of life yet? It never took this long when there was no physical injury.

"Death is patient. Death does not boast. Death does not envy. Death is not proud. Death does not delight in evil but in truth. Death has no limits. Death never fails. But even Death must bend some rules in the face of the Gems of Fate."

Harry still ached. How did he hurt so deeply in Death's nothing place? The fact he could feel pain at all here was testament to whatever the gauntlet had done.

"Do not forget your cause or the title you have claimed. Master is and will be Death's King in this game."

The words were vaguely familiar somehow. Echoing with memory through the haze of pain.

A skeletal hand dripping decayed tissue, colder than the deathly winter on Loki's planet, icier than the depths of northern seas on earth, pressed hard over Harry's heart.

* * *

Harry was shocked awake. His heart wrenched, fighting the command to beat again. His lungs stuttered in a breath, as if he had just been kicked in the chest.

He had never experienced such agony being brought back from death before, especially when he hadn't been injured physically. His body ached as if every cell protested its living state.

Harry had a fair guess it had to do with being killed so completely by the stones' power. Death had to reverse their influence with her own to bring him back.

"What is this?" The words were sibilant and enraged. "How do you live? I commanded you to die."

The word was spit into the air before Harry could hope to stop it.

* * *

"Master, my Master, not the brightest I see. Still his voice. Your title is key."

Harry couldn't respond. He felt like his cells were in the process of imploding one by one. The stones' power and Death's own hand fought over control of his soul.

He couldn't even twitch when that cold hand shoved him back to life again.

* * *

"Wretched worm! You-will-d-"

Harry desperately lashed out with magic twined erratically with Death's power before Thanos could finish bellowing the word.

Harry's body was disjointed. Strings cut, some retied the wrong length, some left to hang. His vision swam as he struggled to coordinate limbs. He blinked blearily to bring the purple mass of Thanos into focus.

The Mad Titan was chained to his throne in thick cords of golden magic reinforced in the black edge of Death's power. Shadow was pressed over his mouth physically gagging him while even more had wrapped around the gauntlet to smother the power it held.

It took Harry a few moments, but eventually he sat straight. A few seconds more and he took the chance to stand. Thanos struggled against the chains, already bulky muscles straining impossibly against the bindings.

Harry had just gotten his feet under him when he felt power tremble and the inky gag fall away from Thanos' mouth.

Merlin's balls, what did Harry have to do to shut him up.

"Lying roach," Thanos spoke. Steady. Controlled. And laced with enough cold hate Harry could feel it polluting the air around them. "I. Will. Crush. You. I'll send your atoms to the farthest corners of space and time. I'll split them and destroy planets with your worthless remains."

"And I will come back again and again and again after it all. I am a roach. Crush me, kill me, destroy me, and I'll only crawl back again."

"Blasphemy!" he roared. "What claim do you have on Death? What tricks have you played to claim her power?"

Harry nearly cackled at the thought of it. Raw arcs of magic staticked across his skin while Death's black power raced between the tendrils of his hair to caress his face and neck. Nearly a lover's touch. Something infinitely tender with the power to destroy from the inside out.

"No tricks. No ploys. No pleas. I am Death's right hand chosen for the spite of the privilege. I am the Master of Death."

Rage. Hate. Jealousy. Denial. "Die," Thanos growled.

Even cloaked in Death's shadow like a leech on flesh, the stones responded.

Harry's knees buckled as his muscles spasmed. He grunted a breath as his heart lost cadence and his lungs seized. For a few frozen seconds he couldn't force his body to inhale.

He grit his teeth as his healing fought back. He could imagine the shadows contracting his heart and moving his lungs in retaliation, bringing them forcefully under control.

"Die," Thanos said again. Then louder, "Die!"

Harry wasn't sure if Thanos' control of the stones was slipping the longer they were wrapped in Death's power or his own healing was already on top of the triage, but he only felt a stuttering heartbeat, a full body shudder as his muscles spasmed and then relaxed.

He rose again.

"I am the Master of Death," he said slowly. "My body has been given to her work; my soul has been stilled by her hand. Balance is her brand on my skin."

Death's power spiked at the words and Harry welcomed the cool rush. His shirt was destroyed as Death's marks flashed stark black against his corpse-pale body. The marks seemed to breathe with their own life, Death's presence bleeding from the lines branded into his skin.

"Fool! I am THANOS. I bring death in her name and for her favor-"

"You are an aberration," Harry cut him off. "Without check or balance." Harry smirked as thick shadow pooled in his cupped palm. He raised the hand for Thanos to better see. "I am a pawn turned Death's king." He stared unblinkingly at Thanos. "The balance and check for all things."

The concentrated power shot from Harry's hand to further wrap the gauntlet.

"You are a child playing a game that's already been lost," Thanos growled. "I have defeated billiions, hundreds more powerful than you. I have ended universes in her name. I have ended your earth! I court her favor with my offerings!"

The shadow before had been duct tape. This was a blowtorch and industrial strength glue. This power leached through the cracks and crevices of the gauntlet, curling around the metal to attack the stones. It began to pry them one by one from Thanos' control.

"You are a poison on the multi-verse. Death cannot be courted; your offerings are an affront," Harry said simply.

One by one, the stones disappeared under the weight of Death.

The infinity stones were near-limitless power. Death was limitless power.

Harry did not harbor any fantasy that the stones could be destroyed, even by Death. Instead he placed each of them into his pocket dimension for indefinite safekeeping.

Thanos was not idle while his claim to the Most Powerful Being in the Universe was systematically stolen. The Titan strained against Harry's magical bindings. At least he had stopped trying to talk Harry to death-literally. Halfway through removing the stones Harry saw his magic around Thanos sizzle and fracture, Death's power barely keeping it together.

He was forced to pull up even more of Death's power to shore up the bindings, deeper into the well at his core than he'd ever gone before. The glow became edged in darkness, solidifying into physical wraps of shadowy chains binding Thanos to his throne.

Every stone Harry stole was a battle pitting Harry's will and Death's power against Thanos' for control of the gems. The asteroid they were on trembled under the weight of the conflicting forces. The throne cracked and crumbled into shards that floated into the vortex surrounding them. The bindings immediately adapted even as Thanos took a few thundering steps towards Harry. Harry found himself taking a knee as he channeled more power into restraining Thanos while still removing the stones.

The Titan was left chained into the very asteroid he had ruled from, Death's power anchored into the rock. For good measure another wrap of shadow gagged the raging Titan.

The final stone disappeared.

There was a sudden absence, a sort of vacuum as the stone was sealed into the pocket of Harry's space and the tear closed.

Harry turned his focus to Thanos. Nothing but enraged eyes as he continued to struggle.

The black and gold of Harry's magic and Death's power had melded completely, creating a purple miasma around the Titan's form, twisting around his body and locking him down.

Harry had no true plan, only intent.

Intent was always stronger than thought.

* * *

It was done.

Harry collapsed to his knees on the small chunk of asteroid that was left, barely enough for him to kneel.

Thanos was a snarling statue of stone, bound in the equally petrified chunk of asteroid where Harry had held him. The Mad Titan would be frozen forever in Sanctuary.

He felt empty, disconnected, as he looked up at his work.

He had never so fully embraced Death's claim on his core.

It was as if, by embracing Death's power, he had absorbed her apathy as well. Blind eyes to judge, no emotion to interfere.

With unclouded eyes he could see as plainly as Death. He knew it would always be too late to fix this timeline. Thanos may be contained for the future, but the past had still been played out. There was no fixing what had been.

Harry and Loki were now and always would be the last two souls left in this universe.

* * *

Harry brought Loki to Sanctuary.

He had been hesitant to dredge up such old wounds, but in the end it had been Loki's choice. The god was almost too sane when he mentioned he wanted to see the blood and bodies as proof that it was over.

It was a closure, of sorts, Harry thought. That much was obvious as Loki walked through the killing field with a faint smile on his face. The last Asgardian and Jotunn would probably never be completely sane again, but this was a start. Loki had literally given everything to see the Titan ended, and now it was done.

When Loki reached Thanos' stone body, face forever twisted in bitter rage, he stopped. Harry wasn't sure how long Loki stood silent and motionless before he began chuckling. The laughter grew until the god was nearly in tears.

"Stone," the god muttered as he turned away, still chuckling.

Harry smiled himself. It was rather unorthodox.

"He's not truly dead," Harry thought he should explain. "Whatever he is, he can't die. He's truly immortal. But it would take someone powerful to undo what I've done, and they'd have to get through the wards I plan on placing. Sanctuary will be his tomb as long as I live."

Loki flashed him a blade-sharp smile. "And that will be a very, very long time."

Harry found himself grinning back. That didn't seem like such an issue any longer.

"Yes. It will."

They both returned to Loki's cave-home-with a smile on their face.

* * *

Harry never could revert his form back to something truly human after his battle with Thanos. Even in his glamour, his human nails were a little too long and hard, his teeth were a little too sharp, and his eyes a little too dark. It wasn't a conscious choice; Death's presence was too intrinsic to fully separate any longer. He still looked human, but also something a little bit more.

* * *

Harry learned all that he needed from Loki to become a Shield. Anything more could only come from his chosen Sentinel. Difficult to choose a Sentinel when there were none left, though.

Harry found the thought wasn't as depressing as it had first been.

* * *

With Thanos gone Loki was much more at ease. Seeing the god nearly carefree, knowing he had helped with that, set Harry's mind at ease. Loki even seemed to regain some sanity. He was no longer lost in memories so often. He became a man Harry could admire for his skill and cleverness.

He was proud to call Loki a friend.

Life was simple, it was easy, and it was exactly what they needed. A trickster god and the Master of Death, the last two people left alive in a dead universe.


	9. Epilogue - Time to Be Found

Epilogue - Time to be Found

MABalas

Posted: 11/02/2017

Chapter: 8/8

* * *

 **I was totally planning on waiting to post this, but I couldn't stop writing and it's now midnight and I have work in the morning. Ugh. BUT, this is officially complete. I hope you enjoy and thank you again for all of the faves, follows, and reviews!**

* * *

Harry watched Loki from where he sat on the cold stone floor. Why did he go along with these experiments?

Loki muttered to himself as he prepared various runes on the walls and triple checked notes. The god had been working on this for years, Harry was pretty sure. At least he thought it had been some years since Loki started obsessing over whatever this ritual was supposed to do. It was hard to keep track of time.

Harry took a deep drink from the cup in his hand and relished the burn of the alcohol. Right, that's why he went along with this. Loki made alcohol strong enough to actually get him tipsy and used it shamelessly for favors.

"This is one of the worst ideas I think you've ever had, and you tried to take over Earth with an alien army," Harry stated plainly.

The disdainful snort wasn't much of a response as Loki kept flitting around the room.

"You're flitting," Harry added. "Flittering?" Harry glanced down at the simple wooden cup. "Merlin's ball sack, what did you put in this?"

Loki laughed at that. The sound, pure and honest, still brought a smile to Harry's face after all this time. Loki had come so far from the mad, broken creature.

"Come, now. Surely you're not frightened of a child's spell?" Loki teased.

Harry frowned at the white lie. Loki had been partaking of the drink as well; it was the only time the god slipped enough for Harry to catch his half-truths. "What are you up to? A child's spell is one thing-but makes me wonder why you spent years on something like that. It's the norse god with a twisted sense of humor casting it where my concern lies. And casting it tipsy, I might add."

Loki scoffed. He began lighting the tapering candles placed carefully around the drawn circle Harry currently sat in-and stayed sitting in, because apparently Harry was an idiot.

"I'm hardly inebriated to the point I can't cast such a simple incantation. And I consider you a friend; I haven't done you permanent harm yet." Loki smirked back while lighting the last candle. He took a step back to observe the circle with a critical eye.

Harry couldn't stop a burst of laughter. "You haven't done me permanent harm because you can't, you arse. You've poisoned me, blown me up, cut off limbs, and decapitated me. All more than once."

"Yet here you are, good as new."

Harry grinned. "Cheeky for a walking icebox."

"Annoying for a reanimated corpse," Loki tossed back.

Harry kept smiling as he took another sip of his drink.

Loki began chanting outside the circle. Harry could feel the magic gathering in the room.

It was refreshing to be able to joke so easily about the things they had once both hated about themselves. Harry felt more at ease with their usual banter.

Harry relaxed and enjoyed the feel of the magic Loki pulled up. The age of the magic here was like a fine wine compared to his Earth's cheap vodka. Both provided the same end results, but there was a flavor to each, different yet not.

Harry's head was fuzzy with the alcohol and some part of him knew this wasn't a simple spell. But a larger part trusted Loki, and trusted his own instincts. Whatever Loki was up to, it wouldn't truly harm Harry.

The magic kept growing around them. It was thick on Harry's tongue, coalescing into a fog in the room. Harry frowned at the gathering power. He twisted to look at Loki over his shoulder.

"Loki? You're going to kill yourself drawing this much power and I'm going to be pissed if I have to fight Death over your soul." It was true. Without life to feed into the balance here the natural magics were destabilizing. "And what will I tell Hela? She finally gets to visit you and I have to explain why you're a shade!" Harry had his own magical core to sustain himself but Loki didn't; the god relied on the weakening magic to keep himself alive. Drawing so much was going to shortcircuit his body. "Stop, Loki. Whatever this is, it isn't worth killing yourself over."

Loki's smile was tired, and it showed his thousands of years of life. The good and the bad. The serious gaze sobered Harry. He carefully set his cup down to face Loki.

"I've lived isolated, alone, and misunderstood, Harry. I pulled you unjustly out of your life, from your friends and home. In my madness I did you a great disservice. I wish to atone for my transgressions. You deserve what I never had the chance to have."

Harry stared at the god. Was he really saying… "Loki?"

"This is the only ritual of its kind. An alteration on my original circle that called and captured you. I want you to be happy, Harry. I find it fitting I can use what once chained you to set you free, friend."

The words echoed like a gong in Harry's mind. Free? What was freedom? Wasn't this-living, learning, exploring their skills-enough freedom?

Loki seemed to read his thoughts. "No, isolated on a dying world in a dying galaxy isn't freedom, Harry. I had freedom, once, as a child, with a brother and mother who loved me dearly. Because of Odin's betrayal I pushed them away and let bitterness control me. Isolation isn't freedom. It was a chance to heal, and now it's time for you to be found, Harry Potter."

The ritual was almost complete. Harry watched the far-too-strong magic gathering. He took in the over-the-top preparations, he thought back on the years of obsessive research, and he wondered what the hell Loki thought he was doing.

This was something new, some of Loki's best work. Harry kept noticing more and more runes carefully placed around the room, lighting as they were activated, holding traces of navigation, location, time, space, and desire carved painstakingly into the walls. They were art in and of themselves.

How had no one ever noticed Loki's brilliance? It was a waste; a mistake on Asgard's head.

But that was all a distraction right now.

"Explain, Loki." Harry stood up and tried to walk to Loki. He bounced off the edge of the circle.

Harry blinked and tried again. It was like walking into an invisible wall.

Loki had the stones to laugh at Harry's confusion. "I did say it was based on my original circle. Hard to give a Gifted their match if they run off."

Bloody. Hell.

Loki had crafted a spell to transport Harry. Space, time, a whole different universe...anywhere.

For his bloody Sentinel.

"You crazy bastard," Harry whispered in shock. He couldn't stop the glance down at his chest where the gray string, an unfound soul match, laid. He had learned to ignore it, but If Loki got this right Harry was going to meet whoever that Sentinel was at the end-and a hell of a lot sooner than planned.

Harry stared hard at Loki, at the god's own gray string leading into the aether, and silently vowed his revenge.

If Harry had to get a kick in the ass to find his Sentinel then Loki sure as a Troll's stink was going to find his as well.

"This is a child's spell, Harry. Nothing but a child's wish for love, acceptance, and understanding. Someone to see them as they are. Not as the world wishes they were, and not as society thinks they should be." Loki's words were soft, as sentimental as they were damning. He paused a moment. "I did include a bit of an adult's draw to the physical comforts," he tacked on with a wicked smirk.

Harry sat abruptly and slumped over his crossed knees, an elbow on one as he pressed his face into his palm. He started laughing.

What else could he do? He could use Death's power to break the circle, but the backlash would rebound on the veritable wall of magic Loki was drawing and would most definitely kill the god. Loki knew that Harry knew that, and knew that Harry wouldn't risk it. Harry could silently hope Loki had miscalculated the ritual and it'd either fail altogether or it'd drop him in some other universe nearby where he could simply step back to Loki.

Or it could work, a traitorous part of Harry's mind whispered. Harry could have his Sentinel. A soul match. He didn't know how he felt about that, to be honest.

Harry was stuck waiting for the ritual to finish. He thought Loki had been amassing enough magic to trigger the spell, but his head snapped up when the magic coalesced into something more.

It hadn't been biding its time to strengthen; it had been searching. And now it had found its target.

The runes flared blindingly bright for a moment, and then the power started focusing ittself as a portal crackled open above him. A wind started in the room, growing stronger as the portal grew.

Harry stared up a it for a moment.

"Is that a wormhole…?" he whispered in slight horror and fascination.

"So it seems," Loki answered. He seemed inordinately proud of himself. "This spell will bring you to the one who will make you happy, Harry. I do hope your Sentinel is up to the challenge."

This was happening. This was actually happening. Harry tore his eyes from the wormhole to stare at Loki. Then he couldn't tear them away from Loki.

Harry could see the strain on the god's face. The lines of pain around his mouth and his trembling legs.

He was killing himself to sustain this ritual.

"Loki, I swear on Merlin's name," Harry snarled at him, "wherever and whenever I end up, if you're still alive after this you idiot popsicle, I'm going to find you and I'm going to send your arse through this ritual myself, and I'm going to enjoy it."

The wormhole kept growing. Harry could feel as it stabilized. He was running out of time.

Harry grabbed a handful of hair in exasperation since he couldn't grab Loki's and shake some sense into him. "I can't believe you plied me with alcohol so I'd go along with this!" Harry thought about that...Loki had been drinking too. "Wait, you're drunk too!"

Harry did a doubletake at the shark-like smile on Loki's face. Sweat was coating his skin now and he was growing paler as Harry watched. A spike of fear sliced through him and he crashed against the circle's edge.

"Loki, you're killing yourself. Stop!"

Tendrils of Harry's hair, grown nearly to his hips, escaped his loose braid in the wind. They kept whipping into his eyes and catching on the piercings he had added to his glamour as he'd gotten bored. He barely caught Loki's cheshire grin through the strands.

"It was necessary to the ritual for you to have your inhibitions lowered." His eyes sparkled with mirth, and Harry knew he was about to say something that would piss Harry off. "And who really plans to die sober?"

"You bloody wanker," Harry snarled, lunging at the god and slamming his fists helplessly on the wall of magic holding him in. "You self-sacrificing idiot! Why?" Harry shouted.

Before he could hit the wall again he was sucked into the wormhole to the sound of Loki's weak laughter.

"Because you deserve it," was the last Harry heard.

* * *

Harry woke to the sight of Death perched elegantly above him on a seat of darkness.

Harry frowned. He didn't feel dead.

"I'm not dead," Harry said aloud. Just to make sure.

Death grinned, more felt than seen. "Not this time, Master. You are instead in the between. Neither living nor dead while the Trickster's spell brings you to the end unseen."

It was a weird thought, to know his Sentinel was so far outside of Harry's own universe. Would Harry have met whoever it was naturally, waiting for the centuries to pass, and stumbled onto them? Or would Harry have changed too much in the intervening time and they wouldn't have been a match anymore? Did your soulmate change based on life experiences, or was a soul something too ingrained, too integral to your being to fluctuate so much?

It all made Harry's head ache with the theory of it.

Harry knew it wouldn't do any good to ask Death about his Sentinel. She wouldn't directly influence Harry either for or against them, male or female.

It was simply a waiting game now.

They floated in the between space for some time in companionable silence. Eventually, Harry felt the peculiar tingle that meant he was waking up again. Not the undeniable tug of life, but more like an insistent nudge to wake from a dream.

Death smiled at him as he began to fade. He didn't expect her to speak, so he had to strain to catch the words.

"What mate could match the Master of Death more complete than one most intimate with each breath?"

Harry couldn't even try to follow that logic as he was spat out on the other end of the wormhole.

* * *

 **AN: I will be getting back to Finding Fire before posting anything further in the King series. Both FF and the next in the King series will be my "project" for NaNo this year so expect to see some posting throughout and/or at the end of November!**


	10. Hiatus

I'm sorry for the false chapter. But I wanted to make it clear for everyone following and/or reading that I will be on an indefinite hiatus due to some life and family changes. Nothing drastic, but I need to focus on a few projects that will actually generate some revenue over the next year. Who knew mobile app development actually required time and effort. :)

None of my stories or series are abandoned, and I have chapters and/or storylines for everything to continue as normal. I just won't have the time to dedicate to fanfiction for a while.

I apologize, but hopefully I'll be able to come back with a vengeance!

Thank you, everyone!


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